


California Soulmates

by rebel_diamond



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: August Rush and California Solo inspired, F/M, Rumbelle Christmas in July 2018, Rumbelle musicians, telepathic soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebel_diamond/pseuds/rebel_diamond
Summary: Pop princess Belle wants to write her own music and get out from under her father’s thumb. Single father Gold wants to put his failed music career behind him and get the hell out of L.A. When inspiration strikes, there’s only one problem…the songs they’re writing aren’t their own. They’re each other’s.*Rumbelle, not Anyelle**“Telepathic soulmates” RCIJ for @beastlycheese





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beastlycheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastlycheese/gifts).



> Rumbelle Christmas in July "telepathic soulmates" present for @beastlycheese who has been forced to read WAY too much of my fics already this year! (She was my amazing beta for all 5 rounds of 2018 Rumbelle Prompt Showdown!) 
> 
> A HUGE thank you to @thecompletebookworm for betaing this!

“Belle, are you listening, princess?”

Belle looked up from where her fists tugged at her skirt. Normally, she wasn't uncomfortable showing off her legs. But the leather couch she perched on in the recording studio was so dilapidated from all the butts of all the recording artists that came before her that she now sat only a few inches off the ground. The five inches of her heels meant her knees were higher off the floor than her bottom. This made the whole outfit work against gravity and the short skirt kept inching up even higher every time she shifted in her seat. The sound engineer sitting in a chair across from her kept ogling her. If her father, leaning against the soundboard, noticed, he pretended not to.

Belle scooted to the tip of the couch where she balanced precariously so she didn't fall off. But when the back of her skirt flopped over the edge, she realized she was giving the guy a perfect view of her panties. She gave up and collapsed into the back corner of the sofa. The sound engine shot her a leer that made her queasy, then turned to her father as if he'd been concentrating on him the whole time.  

Belle hadn't been listening. She didn't love listening to her own voice on a good day. So she definitely wasn't enjoying hearing her tones overproduced within an inch of their life, played back to her for the forty-seventh time.  

Her father looked at her encouragingly as he bobbed his head to the beat. Belle tried to smile, but felt it shrivel on her face. This was supposed to have been her chance. When her father disbanded Avonlea, the all-girl group he'd built around her, with the express purpose of launching Belle's solo career, she'd naively hoped she'd gain an ounce of creative control. Or at least contribute something beyond just her voice. 

Peering around the room full of men, she missed Ruby and Ariel, her bandmates, beside her. They would have laughed together about the ridiculous lyrics they were forced to sing. Ruby would have said something rude to the sound guy. She missed the camaraderie of making music together. Yes, it wasn't their music, but at least they were in it together.

As the dance track was played again, Belle struggled not to cover her hears or visibly cringe. This wasn't the kind of music she wanted to be making. Belle's favorite artists were singer-songwriters. Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Kate Bush, Dolly Parton, Carly Simon, Patsy Cline. Women who told stories with their music. Songs about whole relationships, not one tipsy night in a club. To everyone in the business, she was a pop princess. Behind closed doors and in the safety of her headphones, she was Chrissie Hynde.

But this was all part of the plan. Her father's plan. Everyone knew the world famous record producer, Moe French, knew best. He had carefully crafted every aspect of her career and her life. His efforts hadn't gone unrewarded. Avonlea had the best songwriters and producers working for them. Their singles had memorable hooks and played on the radio ad nauseam. Their music videos received millions of hits. Every Avonlea song they released made it onto the most streamed and downloaded lists.

Her father’s decision to make Belle the unofficial lead of the group had landed her on the cover of every magazine she'd ever read. The interviews were tightly controlled and her image kept squeaky clean so she appealed to the widest fan base. Her clothes, like the skirt she was wearing now, were bright, approachable, and pre-approved. She was regularly featured on celebrity news sites with sidebars telling readers where to buy the top or makeup she was wearing at a discount.

Even who she hung out with was tightly controlled. In the early days of Avonlea, she'd even been in a Moe-sanctioned "relationship" with a member of a very popular boy band. After they’d lost their virginity to each other, he'd burst into tears and confided in her that he was gay and feared coming out would lose him his fan base. Poor Gaston. She’d allowed the press to continue to keep the charade that they were together. That was, until her solo album was announced and her father had decided it was time they “break up.”

Now, her father was recreating his own winning strategy with her solo career. Only this time there was no Ruby or Ariel or even Gaston to share the highs or commiserate with. The songs she was given now were almost identical to the ones given to Avonlea, catchy enough for the little kids and suggestive enough for the teens and twenty-somethings. Belle examined the crew of hitmakers gathered around the soundboard and pretending she wasn't there. She sunk further into the cushions.

In a couple weeks she was due to board a bus and head out on a national tour to promote her first solo album. Her closest friends now, if they could be called that, were the backup dancers she'd been introduced to three months ago. She spent a lot of time with them in rehearsals, but the dancers knew each other from previous tours and Belle felt like an interloper in their exclusive club. Even the opening act had been selected for her, a girl eight years her junior who had recently won a televised singing competition.

The song they were mixing now, something about one night in a club being the start of a summer fling, finally faded out. Everyone looked to her father for his approval. They waited with bated breath as Moe stared at the floor, considering what he'd heard. Belle glanced between the cluster of men and her father. Why was she even required to be here if they didn't even want her input? She gritted her teeth. It wasn't Moe who was expected to go out there and sing and dance and sell it to millions of people.

Moe looked up at the assembled crowd. "I think we've got another hit on our hands, gentlemen!" he declared.

The whole room, save Belle, exhaled in relief.

Moe emerged from the fist bumps and high fives that flew around the room. He approached Belle, still huddled on the couch.

"What do you think, princess?"

What did she think? He wanted her opinion now? After it had already been decided?

A rebellion that had begun stirring inside Belle ever since Moe broke up Avonlea flared up inside her. She raised her voice, so the whole room could hear.

“Did you know it only took one writer and one producer to create ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ but it took six writers and four producers for Beyonce’s ‘Run the World (Girls)’?” Belle blurted.

Was that true? Where had she learned that? The fact had just popped into her head. Blank faces met her remark.

"And there's, like, six words in that song," she added. 

Crickets. It was like she'd said something horrifically offensive.

She searched the room for an ally. All she received were condescending, pitying looks that were very familiar to her. She recognized those stares from all the rooms she'd been in since her singing career begun. Recording studios, record exec offices, photo shoots. Different men over the years, yet they were all interchangeable. Each one of them dismissed her thoughts and ideas. They chalked her up as nothing but a pretty face with a decent body. And those were a dime a dozen in this town. She didn't want to cooperate? Well, they'd find another girl who would. L.A. was crawling with desperate women who were willing to be quiet and submissive while they posed her, gave her hit songs, and made her famous.    

Moe came closer and leaned over her, blocking her view of most of the guys in the room. He lowered his voice. "Princess, don't be ungrateful," he cooed. "These men worked really hard to make you sound so good."

Belle thought her voice would sound good without being masked behind a synthesizer. She'd imagined a solo career would give her an opportunity to show who she was beyond Avonlea and the dancing and the matching outfits. She thought about pulling out the Moleskine she kept in her purse.

Belle had bought it on a whim when her father announced she was going to make a solo album. Secretly, she’d been jotting down phrases and lines she anticipated becoming potential lyrics. She thought about telling him that the scraps on those pieces of paper were way better than the redundant trash his guys were churning out.

But the way her father was eyeing her made her doubt herself and her disobedience died on her lips. She stared down at the floor under his scrutiny. The notebook stayed where it was, hidden, like always. 

"I have rehearsal in an hour," she reminded him instead.

He nodded understandingly and helped out of the divot she'd made in the sofa.

"Oh, Princess," he called to her as she rushed past the men, making her escape. "Don't forget to post on Instagram today."

Ever since she'd gone to a restaurant chain that was co-sponsoring her tour and failed to post an appropriately filtered photo of her meal, he hadn't let her live it down. She was expected to post to one of her social media channels at least once a day so her 30 million plus followers could see what she was doing. As if her life wasn't intruded upon enough already.

Her father had threatened, under the thin veil of being helpful, to hand her social media accounts over to a member of the PR team if she couldn't “handle the responsibility.” She’d been tempted, but giving someone on her "team" even more control over her made her feel ill. It wasn't her team. It was her father's. She was nothing but the product. 

“Your fans like to see you hard at work!” Moe winked at her. If her fans only knew how she'd spent several hours working “hard” singing the same five lines of verse and hook this morning. Then sat staring at the wall for a few more while a group of strangers used a laptop to remixed her voice beyond recognition. 

Now she was headed to dance practice. Where she'd shimmy and shake and flip her skirt up to reveal skin colored bedazzled booty shorts and grind against a bunch of men she barely knew. She didn't even like to dance. She'd rather be at home, curled up with a book. 

She exited the studio and took the two steps across the sidewalk to the car that was waiting with the door already open. The crowd that was gathered outside, tipped off to her location via social media, possibly by her own father, began to scream. She dove into the backseat. Security didn't allow her to make unscheduled stops and take photos with fans anymore. A crowd could easily turned into a mob. She smiled and waved out the window automatically to the throng of cell phones pointed at her. She quickly slipped a pair of sunglasses out of her Rebecca Minkoff saddle bag and slid them on so no one would be able to tell that the grin didn't reach her eyes.

What was wrong with her lately? While she’d had her share of frustrations with the business, she’d never before struggled to find genuine appreciation for all that she’d been given. Where was this restlessness coming from? Belle considered her life. The opportunity to do what she loved for a living. A career people would kill for. More money than she knew what to do with. Fame had its downsides, but she had a certain kind of influence and power that anyone would envy. Her left leg, crossed over her right, jiggled in agitation. What was she missing? A voice she didn’t recognize even though it sounded like her own answered immediately. Someone who understood her. Someone who was supportive of her ideas. Someone who lifted her up instead of caged her in.

Before she’d even made the conscious decision, she pulled the Moleskine and a pen out of her bag. She felt so lost and unhappy. Like she had so many words and ideas pent up inside her and if she didn’t get them out soon she’d pass out from the effort it took to repress them. 

But at the same time, Belle felt guilty for being ungrateful. She sighed deeply. She didn't know where this self-righteous indignation was coming from. Maybe writing down her feelings would help her figure it out.

Alone in the backseat, a privacy barrier and darkened windows blocking her from the driver and the rest of the world, she reached out for inspiration, a muse.

She put pen to paper.


	2. Chapter 2

_What was this complete and utter pish?_

Rumford Gold sat cross-legged on the wood floor of the living room. Well, in a bedsit technically the whole thing was a living room. But it was the sliver of space he and Bae had cordoned off as shared. The window was open and a minuscule breeze, along with a lot of traffic noise, filtered in. With fifteen years of practice, he blocked out the horn and engine noises easily. The windows were old with wooden frames that had warped over the years and been painted over dozens of times, so having it shut made no difference.

He plucked at the strings of the acoustic guitar in his lap, the chain and cord bracelets wrapped around his right wrist shifting with the movement. He scowled at the illegible scribbles on the paper in front of him. He had some song about a drunken night at a club sung in a girl's voice in his head. It sounded like something out of a 16-year-old girl’s diary. He shook his hair out of his eyes and tried to concentrate on the radio jingle he was supposed to be writing for a local car dealership. He should be focused. He was lucky to get the gig. But lyrics about summer and beaches and sex kept ending up on the page instead. He must have picked it up from somewhere, but he swore he hadn’t heard it before. He didn’t even turn on the radio anymore because there was nothing on it worth listening to. The radio dial in his beat to hell Dodge Charger didn’t even work anymore after he’d mashed it a few too many times out of frustration for the drivel it was playing. Bae was always on about Sirius XM, but he could add that to the list of things Bae wanted and Gold couldn't afford.

Gold turned back to the song scratched in pencil on music sheets scattered around him on the floor. He couldn’t have penned it himself. For starters, it sounded way more pop than anything he’d ever written. More tellingly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. He doubted that he could aptly describe it anymore. He glanced over the page of lyrics, all of them inappropriate to sell cars. He’d probably inadvertently picked it up from something Bae was listening to. Despite Gold’s extensive schooling, Bae’s tastes still ran tragically pop. He sighed. Too bad this rubbish wasn’t his. The damn thing would probably be a hit. Gold balled the sheet up in his hand, crumbled it into a tight ball, and lobbed it across the room where it bounced off Bae’s bedroom door.

It wasn’t a bedroom door so much as a curtain Bae had rigged up around his bed in the corner. By the light filtering through the one window Gold could see the outline of his son sprawled out on his bed. He could hear the din of Top 50 seeping out of his headphones. Gold’s own bare mattress was pushed against the opposite wall. It was the best they could do to give each other some sense of privacy. Gold studied his son’s form then lamented the now blank page in front of him. A fourteen year old boy should have his own room. He should have grown up with a yard to play in. Gold blamed himself for not giving Bae everything he should have and keeping them in L.A. long after they should have moved back to Scotland. Or any other place besides this godforsaken city. 

This was not how it was supposed to be. Gold was the founding member and brainchild behind what was an up and coming English rock band. Formed in London in the early 80’s, they were on their way to hitting it big. They were going to make real, industry shattering, mind blowing music and get rich doing it. Until it had all fallen apart.

Gold had written music his entire life. He’d picked up a slew of instruments along the way. First guitar, then piano. He spend his formative years learning every part to his favorite songs. He loved early Rolling Stones and Small Faces. In his teens he’d started a band, like every young kid in Glasgow was doing in those days. But while his friends had eventually grown out of it and moved on to football and girls as their main pursuits, he never lost his obsessive focus on music.

In his early twenties he’d moved to London and worked on finding other serious musicians and together they formed a band, focusing on heavy-sounding rhythm and blues. That’s how he’d met his ex-wife, Milah. She’d auditioned for keyboardist. They were young and she seemed just as invested in the music as he was and it wasn’t long before they were spending all of their time together. In the intervening years, the band crashed on a series of friends’ couches. Gold spent all day writing music and as many evenings as possible in whatever disreputable bar would let them play, fronting his band, playing guitar and singing lead. They were struggling musicians barely scraping by in the city and they had been the best years of his life, full of love and music.

Then, Killian Jones came in to audition after they’d lost their bassist. Gold remembered the moment vividly. They sat in a dingy basement bar of a restaurant that rented the space out to them for rehearsal during the day. Gold, Milah, and the rest of the band sat in creaky old wood chairs and on sticky tables while Jones, under the dusty overhead light, played a Led Zepplin song. That should have been Gold’s first clue. He was always a bigger fan of The Who. After Jones played his last note, Gold peppered him with questions about his abilities, experience, and musical tastes. The same litmus test he’d give anyone who wanted to join his band.

Milah and the rest of the musicians were immediately sold on Jones and his leather jacket joining the band, but Gold was the lone holdout. Reminding him that they couldn’t play their already scheduled performances if they didn’t have a bassist, Gold agreed to let Jones play on a trial basis only. 

It was after one of these tryout gigs, while they were packing up the gear, when Jones sheepishly admitted to the rest of the band that he was really was a frontman at heart.  

“We don’t need a singer,” Gold immediately responded. He wrote the songs, he performed the songs, it worked. No need to fix what wasn’t broken. 

But Milah wasn’t so dismissive.

“Give the boy a chance, love,” she told him, gesturing at Killian. The boy had a look, Gold guessed, though it seemed to hover somewhere closer to Boy George than Rod Stewart. He found everything about the new guy cloying. Jones’ eyeliner rimmed baby blues peered up at Gold in what he imagined was supposed to be a charming, unassuming grin.    

“You don’t even like being up front anyway,” Milah told Gold. While he’d taken the lead singer position out of necessity, Gold had learned to enjoy it and thought he’d grown into it. But the whole band looked at him expectantly.

“Alright, fine,” he’d caved. The kid could try it out and when he didn’t remember any of the lyrics and bombed, they’d go back to their original lineup.

So at the next gig, Gold stood stage right, playing bass and singing backup. He watched dumbly as his words came out of Killian's mouth and everyone fell over themselves. And the performance after that. And the one after that.

Crowds, for some reason, gravitated towards Jones. Droves of women, who Gold knew weren’t there for the music, began attending and standing up front. Gold wanted the music to speak for itself. But Killian was a born entertainer. He chatted to the girls in the crowd, making them titter. Gold glanced across the stage at Milah, who was laughing and shaking her head at his antics, completely won over. He’d remember that look in her eyes and the way her face lit up for the rest of his life.

“He’s sexy,” Milah had told him in bed one night, when he was still on the fence about Jones officially joining the band and taking over lead.

Gold had asked Milah to marry him the next day. He could see now, in retrospect, that he’d sensed her slipping away from him. He had loved her, he truly had. But marrying her had been his way to try and hold onto her, to keep her from leaving him. Not that it had done any good in the end. I didn’t matter, he would have married her anyway because, unbeknownst to them at the time, she was already pregnant with Bae.

With Killian Jones on the mic, the band started to gain more attention. It was so gradual at first, Gold almost didn’t notice. The rooms they played began to fill a little more. The venues got a little bigger. Until one day, at a party after a show, he looked around and realized he in the same room as Jeff Beck and Ronnie Wood, breathing the same air. All because of their mutual love of making music. 

It was only a matter of time before America began calling. The lure of recording contracts and bigger audiences was too great. The band boarded a plane from London for L.A. Upon arriving, they found a place downtown to squat in and seamlessly fell into the music scene. They spent their days recording demos on borrowed studio time. Gold remembered seeing a proper mixing board for the first time and spending hours pouring over it with a single minded intensity. When Bae was born, he joined their caravan of bohemians, riding along in vans to various gigs. Sometimes even living in a van. But it didn’t matter because Bae was a happy baby and they traveled as a band, a family.

One that wasn’t destined to last.

They signed their first record deal with a major label within six months of arriving in L.A. Moe French, a record producer so famous Gold recognized him on sight, happened to be in the audience when they played one of their best shows. He cornered them when they exited the stage. Riding high on one of their best performances ever, they signed without even reading the contract he thrust at them in his glass fronted office the next day. Within the next week they had studio time of their own and twelve of their best tracks laid down. They got so far as to even have an official photo shoot for the album cover, with Killian in the middle and the rest of them fanned out around him.

It looked like Gold had been wrong. Killian Jones had been their ticket to success in the L.A. music scene.

But he had also been their downfall.

Within a year of landing at LAX, Jones and Milah had fell for the drinking and the drugs and each other. The two ran off together and the rest of the band members, burned out by the polarizing drama, vanished, getting gigs in established bands or as session players.

He should have put himself and an infant Bae on a plane the day their family, and the band, broke up. Instead, his pride got the better of him and Gold, with Bae, had stayed in L.A. He'd stick around to show them all. While Jones had been part of their meteoric rise, he was nothing but a pretty face. Gold wasn’t going to let him ruin everything he had spent decades building.

He was in Moe French’s office the next morning.

“I’ll get another band together,” he’d promised Moe. 

“No, you won’t.” Moe answered confidently. At Gold’s perplexed look, he continued. “We own your songs now, boy.”

A horrible pit formed in Gold’s stomach. “I don’t understand.”

“The contract you signed,” Moe informed him casually. “Those songs now belong to the record label.”

“But I wrote them!” Gold defended. “We already recorded them!”

“In a studio the label paid for,” Moe countered. “You wasted my time and my money. That album will never see the light of day.” He remembered the bloated face of Moe French baring down on him. “Now get out of my office before I sue you for breech on contract,” he growled. 

He’d once ran into Eric Clapton on a regular basis. Now he was in a bedsit in east L.A. His best friend was a 14-year-old who would rather closet himself in his ‘room.’ He wrote jingles and whatever else anyone need him for, just to stay involved in music somehow, using the same Gibson that he used to write the songs that were supposed to make him and his band famous. The piano had been sold long ago to pay for this place.

He looked around the room. He used to live out of a van. In comparison to that, this was nothing. It was all Bae had ever known. Scraps of paper with song lyrics scribbled all over them were tacked all over the apartment walls. After seeing _A Beautiful Mind_ at a friend’s house, Bae had come home and asked Gold if he was schizophrenic.

All Gold had left of his blossoming music career was an unreleased album and a trail of broken dreams. And Bae. He had Bae. If he had to do it all again, knowing the outcome, if it got him his boy, he’d do it.

Gold shook his head. He hadn’t thought of his bitterness about the music industry in a long time. He’d focus on Bae and doing what he could to keep the apartment under them and cereal in the cupboards.

He unconsciously played the first few notes of a song he’d written for Bae when he was little. It was meant to comfort his son when he had nightmares, but in truth it gave Gold just as much solace. Now that he was older, Bae didn’t need it anymore. But obviously Gold still did. He’d give in to his despondency and play it through, just the once. Then, he’d get back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Belle sat in the restaurant booth with her Moleskine in front of her. It was a beautiful day and she gazed longingly at the outdoor tables. But they ran along the sidewalk and, with her father leaking her whereabouts, she didn’t want to take the chance of being interrupted. It was the middle of the afternoon so the trendy bar side of the restaurant was empty. Choosing an indoor table near the back by the bathrooms, the manager, who would be eager for Belle to have a good time so she would return and word would get out she liked his business, would run interference should too many people approach her table. 

She opened the notebook to the latest pages, the ones she’d written in the car on the way to dance practice the day before. At first, she’d had that stupid song she was recording stuck in her head. The pages, with their loopy scrawl, reflected that. It was a lot of lyrics about boys and flirting. But she stuck with it and, a few pages later, something else completely unlike a club song unfurled in her mind. The early pages of the notebook were just snippets of random thoughts she’d had over the past few months. This had come to her as a complete song. 

She studied the three verses and chorus. 

The song wasn’t even in her own voice, it was in a soft male voice. Did people usually hear songs they were writing sung in their own voice? She didn’t know, she’d never really tried it before. The lyrics weren’t even based off of any experience she’d ever had. That’s what was so peculiar about it. It was a love song, but not the kind that were popular. More like a song from a parent to a child, something she knew nothing about. Was she just channeling all the parents she met that brought their kids to Avonlea shows? Was songwriting really this easy? 

The door at the front of the building opened and she watched Ariel and Ruby breeze in. They were laughing, in mid-conversation about something Belle was on the outside of. Her jealousy momentarily flared before her relief at seeing them extinguished it. She hadn’t been sure if they’d want to see her or not. She wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t. They hadn’t talked a lot since Moe abruptly broke up the group. A few texts here and there, but Belle was swept up in solo album work and prepping for the tour and she wasn’t given much down time. But Alriel and Ruby were the only people in her life her father hadn’t regulated her interaction with and she missed them. She missed their friendship. But she could see by their easygoing nature that they were in a different world than she was now. 

Belle sat up straighter in the booth and smiled when they scanned the restaurant and found her. They both waved wildly, like they were on a ship coming into port after a long journey. Belle slid out of her seat when they got closer. She couldn’t help but notice how different they both looked from the last time she saw them. Freed of Moe-approved clothing, Ruby wore a frayed denim mini skirt, a tiny white blouse that was both unbuttoned low and tied above her navel, and a lip color that matched her namesake. Her father would have had a coronary. Ariel, on the other hand, rebuffed the fitted, midriff-baring looks of Avonlea and now dressed like a grade school teacher, in a sweet green blouse and plaid skirt. What would she dress like, Belle wondered, if she was allowed to dress herself? She studied the two extremes in front of her. Probably somewhere in the middle, she decided. 

“What up, Belles?” Rudy greeted with that huge smile of hers that made Belle’s heart clench. 

Belle hugged both of them harder than was necessary. “Thank you for coming,” she told them, her voice muffled by Ariel’s bouncy red mane. 

“Of course,” Ariel told her airily, letting Belle go and sliding deep into the booth to make room for Ruby. “Why wouldn’t we?” 

Belle shrugged, feeling sheepish about her concern that they couldn’t be friends anymore now that they weren’t bandmates. Maybe they’d only been friends with her in the first place because they had to be, because of who her father was.    

“I thought you might have moved on,” she admitted to them.  

“Moved on from you?” Ariel asked, like she was crazy. “We’ll always be sisters, Belle,” she told her, echoing a refrain from one of their hit songs that the group had adopted as their own. That tugged at Belle’s heartstrings. She was an only child and when her father had disbanded Avonlea, it felt like her family had been ripped apart. 

Belle forced herself to look at them both, though she fiddled with her hands nervously. “I’m so sorry about what happened.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words ‘that my father fired you so he could make me more famous.’

Ruby shrugged, “It’s okay. We knew what we were, Belle.” 

Belle looked between them, “What’s that?” 

“A vehicle for you,” Ruby replied bluntly. 

Belle was crushed. It was all of her worst fears confirmed. The two of them had been used and thrown away and it had been all her fault.  

Ariel put her hand over Belle’s, disturbed that they’d upset her. “Hey, it’s okay. We had fun.” She glanced at Ruby, who nodded in agreeance. 

“I’m sorry,” Belle repeated honestly. 

“Belle, we’re still your friends,” Ariel insisted. “We’ll always be your friends. Just because we’re not with you anymore doesn’t take away what we’ve done together.” 

Belle gave them a watery smile. Could she still be their friend, when she was so in their debt? Despite their kind words, a chasm had opened up between them and she didn’t know how to close it again. After being her closest confidants for so long, they were now suddenly outside the inner circle. 

“Is everything okay?” Ariel asked her, squeezing her hand. That was Ariel, always checking on other people. She’d played the maternal role when Belle hadn’t had a mother in so long. 

She thought about her restlessness the day before, how frustrated she was over being ignored by her father and all his minions. But saying ‘no’ and venting to Ruby and Ariel about how miserable she was, seemed insulting to the both of them. She still had everything. They had been forced to start over, because of her. 

“Yeah,” she insisted. “Yeah, everything’s good,” she finished oo brightly. 

Ariel seemed dubious, but luckily the waiter came over just then to take their drink orders. 

Ruby ordered a mojito. Ariel asked for a strawberry margarita. Belle automatically opened her mouth to order an unsweetened iced tea. She was forbidden by her father from drinking in public. It would hurt her image with her younger fans and their mothers. Or, worse yet, she could be photographed drinking a brand she didn’t have an endorsement deal with. ‘Don’t give it to them for free,’ her father always instructed her. Ruby and Ariel, free from the confines of Moe French, ordered whatever they wanted. 

Belle considered her options. “Do you have Tennent's?” came out of her mouth. She felt Ruby and Ariel’s heads whip around to stare at her.  

“Um,” the waiter stumbled. “What’s that?” 

“I don’t know,” Belle admitted. A taste memory was on her tongue, despite having never drank it. “A beer, I think?”  

The waiter apologized profusely for not being able to give Belle what she wanted. He launched into a lengthy list of the brews they did have. 

She waved his concern away. “Can I try a whiskey neat, then?” she requested instead. 

The waiter sagged in relief that she’d given him a wish he could fulfill. 

After the waiter scurried away, Ariel leaned both arms on the table, giving Belle a serious look. “Belle, honey, since when do you drink whiskey?” 

“Or…” Ruby looked down at her phone where she’d Googled Tennet’s, “Scottish lager, for that matter?”

“I don’t,” Belle replied, perplexed herself. “I just want to try it all of a sudden.” 

Ruby and Ariel exchanged a glance, Ruby looking a little impressed, but ultimately decided not to press her. 

“So how is old Moe?” Ruby changed the subject, acknowledging the ghost in the room with them. 

“The same,” Belle offered, not sure what else to say.  

“So still a controlling bastard, then?” Ruby asked.  

Belle snorted in laughter despite herself and Ariel almost spit her drink.  

Ruby slapped Ariel on the back as she coughed. She held up her other hand, “I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to criticize the almighty Moe French, but your dad can be too much sometimes.” 

“Let’s change the subject,” Ariel told them between chokes. Belle was relieved. Not that what Ruby had said wasn’t true, but she also didn’t feel comfortable sitting around trashing him either. “What else is new with you?” 

“Well,” she debated on telling them about the song burning a hole in her notebook. “I’ve been writing,” she offered tentatively.  

“Songs?” Ariel perked up. 

“Yes, songs.” 

She’d obviously intrigued them. “What kind of songs?” Ruby asked.  

“Nothing much so far. Just this one. But I think it’s okay.” 

“Do you have it?” Ruby pushed. 

Belle nodded, unsure where this was going. 

“Lemme see,” Ruby opened and closed her fingers at her. 

Forcing down her uncertainty, Belle pulled out the Moleskine and handed it over. “Last page,” she added hastily, not wanting them to look at her earlier half-formed ideas. 

Ruby flipped open the book and Ariel leaned over her shoulder to read it too. Belle braced herself. She knew Ruby would be bluntly honest and not spare her feelings. After a minute of silence, she opened her mouth to say something about it being her first song, so she wouldn’t judge her too harshly, but Ruby interrupted her.   

“Damn, Belle,” Ruby drawled. “This is good,” she looked between the notebook and Belle. “I mean it. Where did you come up with it?”  

Belle shrugged again, “I don't know. It’s just some lyrics that popped into my head yesterday.” 

“Are you going to record it?” Ariel asked, equally impressed. 

“I don’t know if my father will let me,” Belle admitted honestly. 

Ruby handed the notebook back to her and sat back in the booth. A slow smile spread across her lips. “Moe doesn’t have to know.”  

“What do you mean?” Belle asked. 

“I have Ableton on my laptop,” Ruby told her. “ We could record it ourselves and leak it!” She saw the alarm cross Belle’s face. “No one would have to know its us. Or when it was even recorded.” 

“We’ll put it out on YouTube,” Ariel added, catching on. “Along with a crappy slideshow. No one will know you had anything to do with it.” 

“I’ll create a dummy account. The most Moe could do is send me an order to take it down.” Ruby assessed Belle’s wariness. “He’s not the CIA, Belle. Moe can’t have me shot.”  

“The song goes viral, Moe sees what a success it is, and when he finds out you wrote it, he’ll let you write more songs!” Ariel wrapped up optimistically. 

Belle appreciated their support, but she was still concerned. 

“We could use mine and Eric’s place,” Ariel offered. At Belle’s confusion, she slapped her hand on the table. “Oh, you don’t know about Eric!” 

Eric, it turned out,  was Ariel’s boyfriend, the son of a shipping magnate.  

Ariel passed her phone over to Belle who thumbed through photo after photo of Ariel and Eric posing for selfies and doing couple-y things, like going to the zoo and out to restaurants. One was of them in swim wear lounging on the back of a yacht. Belle’s melancholy jealousy boiled over again. Not envy over the lavish lifestyle, but having a best friend, a true love.

Talk of Eric got them away from the topic of Belle’s song for the time being. Which naturally segwayed into a series of roccuous tales of Ruby’s Tinder dates and hookups. Ruby was the Samantha to Belle and Ariel’s Charlottes. They knew this because the three of them had binged  _ Sex and the City _ on the tour bus one summer. 

Their drinks arrived a moment later and Ruby and Ariel looked on at Belle and her small glass of amber eagerly.  

Belle took a sip, winced and released hacking coughs at the burning radiating down her esophagus.  

“Alright, Hemingway, we’ll work on your drinking problem later,” Ruby teased. “Now, when can you sneak away to record this song?”    
  



	4. Chapter 4

He was sitting of the edge of his bed with his guitar, tinkering with that pop song again. Maybe his poor old brain was throwing him a bone and was going to give him something commercial to sell to get them out of this apartment. Gold set his own personal tastes aside and leaned into the song. It would take some fiddling in GarageBand to get it to come out like he heard it in his head. But maybe he could find a female singer to put it down for him for free on the agreement that if it sold she’d get a cut of the profits. 

He was well into the second verse when Bae walked in from school. It struck Gold anew how much he looked like his mother, a woman Bae only occasionally saw when she blazed through town. Killian Jones had gone on to front a number of bands with varying degrees of success of the years, with Milah following behind. She’d also followed him to various rehabs over the years, also to fluctuating results. 

So accustomed to hearing his dad playing, Bae only half-listened as he crossed the room to the kitchenette and rifled through the cupboards for cereal, a spoon, and a bowl. Like a true 14-year-old, he had the gift of being in a room with his father and pretending he wasn’t there. 

Gold decided he’d harass him about the school day after he finished writing the song that would hopefully get them out of this bedsit. He sang the chorus to himself, got halfway into the third verse, then paused to make an adjustment to his notes. 

Bae perked up, then his eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “Since when do you listen to Belle?” 

Gold hurriedly scribble out a line before it left his head. “Who?” he asked distractedly, not looking up from his paper.  

“Belle,” Bae repeated with that exasperated huff to it that had entered his voice somewhere around twelve. Gold suspected it wouldn’t be going away for another ten years, possibly never.  

He looked up at his son, his face blank.  

Bae let out an over exaggerated sigh, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Gold still used an ancient flip phone but had splurged on a smartphone for Bae so he wouldn’t be singled out among the other kids in his class. A few swipes later a young woman’s voice emanated from the speaker, singing the exact song he’d just been playing, in an identical intonation of the one he’d heard in his head. For thirty seconds he just sat there, listening. How was that possible? 

“May I see that?” he held out his hand for the phone. 

Bae, bopping his head to the song, slapped it into Gold’s palm. 

On the screen was a gorgeous brunette woman. He recognized her from a few magazine images Bae had tacked up between his mattress and the wall, where he thought Gold wouldn’t find them. None of them were dirty, just the highly suggestive stuff from the checkout line. He was reminded again how badly his son needed a space of his own. 

In this image she was sitting on the floor, leaning up against a bed like she’d just tumbled out of it and had a good time. In a leather bustier top, she had one arm thrown over her head on the bed. With her other hand, she had one dark curl wrapped around her finger. She was biting her lip with a dreamy look in her eyes, like she was replaying in her head what had just happened on the bed. It looked innocent and highly sexual all at the same time. Gold knew, on an intellectual level, that she was tarted up by the label to evoke a certain kind of reaction in old, lonely men like him. 

Ok, so perhaps they  _ both _ needed their own space.  

He dragged his eyes from the woman to glance at the bottom of the screen, the song from his head still streaming through the speaker. Just one name, Belle, was scrawled under the image, with the title of the song. 

“It’s the first single off her solo album,” Bae told him.  

Gold was dumbfounded. Now that he was hearing it properly, he knew he’d never heard that song in his life, besides in his own head. But he must have. He must have heard it somewhere and picked it up by osmosis. It must have been playing out a car window as it drove by, the melody sweeping up and through the open window, where Gold’s brain had inadvertently tucked it away for later.   

When he handed the phone back to his son, Gold tried not to let the disappointment he was feeling show. He’d let himself start pinning hopes and dreams on a song that wasn’t even his. He should have known it was too good to be true. Bae went back to his cereal and Gold surveyed the apartment and sighed. Maybe it was time to try something else, somewhere else. He’d strung himself, and more importantly Bae, along for too long. 

It was time to get out of L.A.   

***

There wasn’t much to pack. Still, he’d spent the last couple days lugging flattened cardboard boxes home from the alley behind the supermarket. Bae had been understandably upset when he’d broke the news to him that it was time to move. Despite his son’s protests, there was no point waiting until the school year was over, why drag this out any further? They could ship a few boxes to London ahead of them, and take the rest in their carry-ons. Since the decision to move had been made, his son had spent the majority of his time moping around the room and ignoring him even more effectively than usual. 

Which is why he was surprised when Bae bounded through the door with more energy than he’d had in days. 

“Did you sell my song?” He was so excited the words came out in a shout. His eyes were wild, his book bag hung off him haphazardly. His headphone cords were tangled around him like he’d run all the way home from the bus stop.    

Gold shook his head, “What song?” 

“ _ My _ song.” Bae wasn’t upset, he noticed, more like hyper. 

Gold knew the one he was referring to. The song he’d written for Bae as a lullabye. The one he played the other day when he was feeling sorry for himself. 

“No, of course not,” he told him. Why would he sell such a private piece? The thought had never occurred to him. Why Bae think he had? 

“Then why is it on the internet?” Bae persisted. He yanked his phone out of his pocket, ripped the headphone cord out of the jack, and with the most intense feeling of dejavu, Gold listened as the same woman’s voice, Belle’s voice, came out of the speaker. It wasn’t an overproduced schlocky mess like the last song. This was a simple rendition of the song he’d written for his only child, with no instrument accompanying it. It didn’t even sound like it was done in a studio. 

“What is this?” Gold wondered aloud, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. 

“Someone leaked it online today. We think it’s off the new album, or some kind of teaser. It doesn’t sound like her other stuff.” 

He would imagine not. It  _ wasn’t _ her stuff, it was his. Thoughts came fast and furiously. Leaked it? Why would someone leak his song online? Why would they even have it? This couldn’t be coincidence. That was two times now he knew a song before it had appeared online, sung by the same pop singer. 

“Did Belle steal your music?” Bae asked tenuously. 

Gold shook his head, “No, no, of course not.” That was preposterous. Also, he wasn’t going to tell his son that some woman he had a crush on was a plagiarist. 

“Then how did she get my song?” he asked plainly. 

Gold’s mind flooded with possible explanations. Had he ever written it down and left it anywhere? No, he’d made it up on the spot thirteen years ago and had made slight tweaks on the fly over the years. Could someone have stolen it? He often played and sang in tiny clubs and coffee shops, but he’d never performed Bae’s song publically. Could a neighbor, or someone staying with a neighbor have overheard it, recorded it somehow and sold it? That was much more likely. 

Bae bounced on his toes, lighting on a solution. “She’s playing the Staples Center next week. And she’ll be at the Hollywood Bowl after that! We can go talk to her!” 

Gold wondered how concerned he should be at how keyed into this woman’s movements his son was. All the more reason not to pursue this further. Gold knew firsthand what a cold, calculating business this was, motivated by money and greed. He doubted Bae would be mooning over her photo when she took them to court and what little they already had away from them. His son, he knew, was only going to get hurt. “Bae, it’s not as simple as that.”

“Yes it is! We’ll tell her it’s our song!” Bae’s eyes shone with certainty. 

And what? Demand money? Gold followed that daydream to its inevitable conclusion. Did he want his son to watch his papa get literally thrown out on his arse? If he wasn’t sued for extortion. Who would believe him? Who, besides Bae, even knew he was the one who wrote that song? No one he realized bitterly. 

“Bae,” he tried to reason with his son, “it’s the Staples Center, not The Smell.” The Smell was a cheap, all-ages venue for experimental and punk music they frequented that only held 130 max. “We can’t just walk in there, and certainly not backstage.”   

“Then we’ll get tickets,” Bae insisted. 

“You know we can’t afford to go.” Bae had heard the money argument enough from him now to know that signaled the end of the conversation. “That’s why we’re going home,” he begged for him to understand.

Gold couldn’t admit to him the real reason he honestly had no urge to go. The Staples Center had been the location of his greatest defeat. It’s where Bae’s mother had told him it was over, that she and Killian were running off together. He could still hear the echo of the Exit door they’d escaped out of as he watched it slam behind them, leaving him and Bae behind. Yet another reason to leave L.A. Everyone else had moved on with their lives, yet he and Bae were right where Milah left them.   

But mentioning their impending move had been the wrong thing to say. “Going to  _ you’re  _ home!” Bae spat. “Los Angeles is  _ my  _ home!” 

“Bae, I can do better for us there,” he felt like a broken record.  

“But we have to go,” Bae pressed on. His words were rushing out of him now. “We’ll go and we’ll see Belle and we’ll tell her it’s our song and then you’ll make money,” he pleaded, “and then we can stay.” His voice broke with emotion. He looked down at the floor, trying to hide his watering eyes.  

“Bae,” Gold breathed, his heart broken. He put his hand on Bae’s shoulder and leaned down so he was level with his son. It wouldn’t be long now, he reflected, until he wouldn’t have to bend down to look his son in the eye. He’d be looking up, by the way things are going.   

“We could use the plane money-,” Bae whimpered. 

“Enough,” Gold snapped. He never got forceful with Bae. But this couldn’t go on, this mad plan about arenas and popstars and not moving back to the U.K. It didn’t matter how this woman got ahold of his lyrics, it was done. They were going back home, he was putting music to the side once and for all and moving on with his life. They couldn’t live in the past anymore, and L.A. was filled with ghosts.      

“Bae,” he stated evenly, “you know I would do anything for you,” he lifted a finger to cease Bae’s interruption, “but there is no conceivable way for us to get to that concert and that’s final.”   


	5. Chapter 5

Belle stood in the middle of the stage, hands on her lower back, looking up at the scaffolding being erected above her. She’d played the Staples Center before, but as part of a group. The stage seemed to dwarf her now in a way it didn’t when she had Ruby and Ariel on either side of her. Behind her, some dancers were practicing in harnesses that launched them from one side of the stage to the other. She looked out at the sea of 19,000 seats in front of her. This was it. There’d be no turning back now. This performance, her very first as a solo act, on such a large stage was symbolic of the path she was about to go down. She’d be a pop artist now, on her father’s label. Not the storyteller she really wanted to be.  

She heard her phone beep at the end of the stage where she’d set it. There weren’t any pockets in the leggings she was wearing, there couldn’t be anything for a dancer to get their fingers caught on when they lifted her. She lifted it to see a message from Ruby. Just seeing her name on her phone made her smile. She’d had such a good time with Ruby and Ariel at the restaurant and going over to Ariel and Eric’s house afterward. She got to meet Eric and get a peek at the domestic, comfortable routine they had with one another. That was when Belle realized that, rather than Ariel and Ruby being driven out of the industry, maybe  _ she _ was the one on the outside looking in. Sitting in on the couch, watching Eric, Ruby, and Ariel joke with each other in a familiar way, Belle felt like a fish stuck inside a small tank with a sad decorative plant, while the rest of them were free to roam the ocean. 

Afterward, the three of them had retreated to the basement into a small recording studio Eric had rigged up for Ariel. It was cramped and ramshackle and Belle thought it was her favorite place she’d ever recorded a song in her life. They’d giggled and gossiped in a way that made Belle feel Avonlea had never broken up. In between stories, they sipped on bottles of hard lemonade and Belle recorded the secret song from her notebook. Just thinking about the song brought her peace. That song that represented the kind of music she wanted to be making. It was also proof that she could do it. A dangerous fact that she didn’t know what to do with yet. 

Belle unlocked her phone to see the message from Ruby. 

_ Have you seen? People are losing their shit! _

A series of bubbles popped up after that, signalling that Ruby was typing. A YouTube link popped up on her screen.

She glanced around and muted her phone before hitting the link with her thumb. She scrolled past the video of random pictures they’d found online they’d made to play over the song to the comments below. 

A lot of people were wondering what it was. Some thought it was an old demo. Others claimed it wasn’t her singing at all because it didn’t sound like her. Actually, Belle thought, it sounded more like her than she’d ever had. Others guessed it was a new track off her yet to be released album. As if her father would allow that to happen.  

“What’s that, princess?” the man himself appeared over her shoulder.  

Belle jumped, quickly dropping the phone to her side. “Nothing,” she insisted. “Just a video Ruby sent me.” She stuck close to the truth so she’d appear less guilty. Belle cast her mind about for something her father would have little interest in. “Funny cats.” 

He shook his head in a ‘I can’t understand you kids these days’ way. “We’re doing a complete run through in fifteen. Get your head in the game,” he told her.  

“Yes, papa,” she replied automatically, hating how obedient she sounded. But she was convincing enough to make him wonder off down the stage.  

Belle sighed in relief. Now that she’d secretly done something rebellious, she found it more difficult, instead of easier, to appease him. She wondered if recording and leaking that song was going to be the only rebellious thing she’d ever get do in her entire life.     

She’d done something ‘bad’ in making that song. And it made her want to do it again. 

***

The scream went up when he was halfway up the stairs. He’d gone to the grocery store alone since Bae wasn’t talking to him anymore. He’d get over it. Gold could not let himself feel bad for doing what was best for his family and moving them across an ocean was going to be better for them in the long run. He was shoring up his determination to face Bae again, a cloth bag in each hand as he trudged up the stairs, when he heard the wail that he knew was unquestionably his son’s. It was a crowded apartment building with a lot of kids, it could conceivably had been any one of them, but he just knew it was Bae’s. He dropped both his bags as he scrambled the rest of the way up the staircase, oranges tumbling down the stairwell. 

After a long moment where he felt as if he was climbing up the stairs but getting nowhere, Gold burst into the apartment. Bae stood in the middle of the room jumping around. First on one leg, and then the other. 

Was there a fire? Did he hurt himself? Gold’s eyes searched the room desperately. No smoke. No fire. No blood. Just Bae. Who was smiling maniacally from ear to ear. 

“We’re going!” he hooted. “We’re going to the concert!” 

_ This again _ . Gold’s entire body deflated. He put one hand on the doorframe to steady himself, the other went to his chest, as if he could physically calm the pounding now that he knew his son was safe. His white t-shirt felt soaked in perspiration. He heard doors opening behind him and he ducked under his braced arm to wave off the curious neighbors peeking their heads out their doors to check on the commotion. 

“Bae,” he began wearily. 

“You can’t tell me ‘no’ now because I  _ won  _ them!” he shouted in his father’s face. 

That stopped him short. “You wo- what? How?”  

“On the radio!” He was still yelling.  

Bae won tickets to that stupid concert? The exact one they’d been fighting about for days now? “Since when do you listen to the radio?” he asked dumbly instead. If it wasn’t viral and on YouTube, he doubted Bae had ever heard it. 

“They always give tickets away to stuff,” Bae blew past his question. “I was caller twenty-two, Belle’s age. Then I had to answer trivia. Name Belle’s favorite Avonlea song, that kind of stuff, it was easy.”  

Christ, how much did his son know about this woman? 

Beyond that, Gold was completely bewildered. How many bizarre things could happen to them inside a week? First the songs, now this. He struggled to come to terms with this new reality. So he had to take Bae to the Belle concert after all. He thought he had escaped all that. 

“Not only that!” Bae hollered at him. 

Gold’s hand clenched his shirt where it still rested over his heart. He didn’t think he could take another shock. 

“We get to go to the meet and greet after the show!” Bae told him this as if this was the best thing to ever happen to them. 

The words took a long time to process. Now, he not only had to take Bae to the concert and possibly sit through this complete stranger performing his material, he had to meet this woman face-to-face, smile and pretend she hadn’t plagerized the most precious song he’d ever written.

Shit. 

*** 

The seats he’d won weren’t that great, not that Bae minded. 

Gold grimaced at sheer number of people crammed into the arena. This wasn’t a concert venue, this was a spectacle. Among 19,000 screaming fans, 99% of them were less than half his age. He’d spotted a few other parents around, either dropping their kids at the curb or, like him, roped into coming in with them. He was dressed normally in a t-shirt with a flannel over it, which Bae disapproved of and tried repeatedly to get him to change. 

“You’re going to meet  _ Belle _ ,” Bae kept insisting, ushering him back towards the small closet of clothes he had. 

Like hell was he getting dressed up for this woman. They weren’t meeting the Queen for god’s sake.  

The opening act was a young girl with a big voice and Gold wondered how long it was going to be until the business ate her up and spit her out, the pessimism at being in this place again wearing on him. None of this was Gold’s kind of music. This also wasn’t his kind of scene. He preferred a more intimate venue, where the music could really shine. This wasn’t so much a concert as 19,000 people getting together to scream at a woman who was the size of an ant from where they sat. 

The little girl left the stage to polite applause and the house lights went up while they switched out the instruments.

Even as they were walking to the Staples Center, he still didn’t believe Bae had won tickets. But there they were, at will call, along with red wrist bands that were secured around their arms, telling everyone they were part of the meet and greet after the show. Gold passed hundreds of fans eyeing up their bands hungrily and he put a protect hand on Bae’s shoulder, not doubting for a second that most of them wouldn’t hesitate to rip them off them if given half the chance. 

The lights dimmed, signaling Belle’s arrival, and everyone, except Gold it seemed, collectively lost their minds.  

Even as he sat there, Gold didn’t know a thing about this woman. In the days leading up to the concert, he’d purposefully avoided Googling her. Partly because doing so would make him feel like a creepy old monster. He remembered what how one simple photo had affected him. He refused to go down that path. He was not going to get a crush on his son’s crush. But mostly he forbid himself from entering her name in a search engine so he didn’t become obsessively paranoid about her stealing his music. He needed to keep it together at this meet and greet. 

When Belle finally came to the stage, her songs had all the substance of cotton candy. He lost count how many times she ran off stage only to re-enter in a new outfit. Her stomach was on display in tiny tops and even tinier skirts. She strutted around the stage in impossibly high heels so when she spun her skirt flipped up in the back. 

Not that he could hear her very well over all the screaming and the singing along, but he suspected she was lip syncing half of each song so she could move along with her cadre of backup dancers. She kept her own dancing to a minimum. Mostly the group danced around her, occasionally lifting her up over their heads. But when she did join in she dipped and slithered in the kind of moves one found in a strip club. Projected onto the jumbo screens, Gold couldn’t avoid her seductive performance. Thankful for the darkened auditorium, he adjust himself on the sly. She was beautiful, obviously. 

What would she sound like stripped down? He wondered on a purely professional level. What would she  _ look  _ like stripped down? The natural follow-up question popped into his head unbidden. 

She sang the terrible pop song he’d written but thankfully not Bae’s song. He didn’t relax until the house lights came up and an announcement came over the loudspeakers, telling the crowd that Belle and the Staples Center thank them for coming and for those with meet and greet bands, please form a queue on the now brightly lit floor. Gold and Bae made their way down several flights of stairs, finally hitting the floor. Gold gave their names to the large man wearing a bright yellow Security shirt and they were given the nod to follow the line. A concert organizer ushered small groups of them at a time into the backstage area. 

Gold examined the large ornate stage the tour staff was already dismantling to pack up and take to the next town. Gold had never seen anything so over the top. Things in his day had been downright minimalist compared to this. Just a stage and some instruments, how much more could you need if the music was decent? Easy to say if you never had it, he thought. He could have played venues like this, had his life gone differently.   

He put his hand on Bae’s shoulder, “You know, I was back here once.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he replied in monotone. He had no interest in hearing tall tales about the youthful indiscretions of his old man and who could blame him.  

As they were ushered backstage, Gold’s sense of dejavu returned. He’d been here once before, as a prospective opening act. Right before it all fell apart. As they rounded the corner down a wide hallway, he knew what he’d see. It played out in front of him, just like it had twelve years ago. He’d been limping down the hallway. He’d injured his ankle the night before after drinking a bit too much at a party and tripping awkwardly off the curb on the walk home. He didn’t have health insurance, none of them did, they were invincible as far as they were concerned. But he’d offered to round up the rest of the band because they were a half hour from going on at the Staples Center. They were going to be U2’s second opening act on some of their latest tour dates, with the possibility of more if they were liked. Milah was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. Jones was looming over her, pinning her against the wall in a way that brought him up short. He’d surprised them, he could tell. They jumped apart. 

“Listen, mate…” Killian said apologetically.

Milah had tried to stop him from continuing, but it all came tumbling out after that. They were together, had been for a while now. They’d fought, Gold had pleaded, and Milah and Jones had left. He could still hear the slam of the Exit door at the end of the hall they had escaped out of, taking his entire career with them. They’d never gone on that night, and they never would again.   

Gold shook himself back to the present. It didn’t look like much had changed, except the clothes on the people milling around and ache in his ankle that acted up more as he aged. He wondered whether the cigarette burn he’d made on one of the walls was still there.  

He was so busy torturing himself with the past that he hadn’t even noticed it was their turn until Bae tugged hard on his arm. He took a few distracted steps forward, looked up, and stared at the most captivating blue eyes he’d ever seen.    
  



	6. Chapter 6

She was still in her encore outfit. A shiny red dress with a plunging neckline open almost to her navel. Below that the long skirt opened at the front to reveal matching red sequin hotpants. During her encore large fans below the stage had blown the long train up in the air. Red gloves stretched up to her elbows. Her skin was shiny from the performance. Auburn hair fell in waves all around her. He halted, honestly taken aback by how beautiful she was.

“Hello,” she greeted brightly. Her face was open and understanding. She must think he was starstruck, which was better than the alternative, the truth being he was desperately struggling to not look at her boosted cleavage or her shapely legs.

Thankfully, she turned her attention to Bae standing in front of him. She didn’t even have to bend down to be on the same level with him, like she had to for some of her tinier fans.

“The show was great,” Bae told her in a daze. Gold took in his son’s glazed over eyes. If Bae stayed this distracted throughout the meeting this might be over ever quicker than he’d hoped. 

“Thank you,” she told him, sounding genuine. Then she glanced up at Gold mischievously. “But what did your dad think?” A teasing smile tugged at the corner of her rose colored mouth, suspecting he’d been dragged here like all the other parents. 

Bae’s eyes lit up at the opportunity she’d presented him with. “He doesn’t mind,” he lied, “because my dad writes music, too!” Gold cringed but couldn’t stop him before he blurted, “He even wrote some of your songs!”

Her eyebrows shot up in response. That was obviously the last thing she’d expected to come out of his mouth. She turned those devastating eyes back on him again and considered him, tilting her head to the side. “Did he?” Her lips pursed, suppressing a smile and daring him to talk his way out of that statement. 

He hadn’t known she had an accent. The sweet lilt of her voice danced through his brain, short circuiting his synapses. 

“No,” he asserted childishly, internally withering.

Bae stood between them. “Tell her, papa,” he urged in what he must have thought was a whisper but was definitely not. 

His mouth opened and snapped shut, but Belle waited patiently for an explanation. “One of your songs,” he apologized. “It…sounds similar to a song I made up,” he explained.

“The one that leaked,” Bae provided.

“It’s just a coincidence,” Gold added hastily. 

Her gaze shifted from curious to intrigued, as if he’d said something particularly interesting. Out of the corner of his eye Gold saw the security guard overseeing the proceedings charge forward to manhandle Bae and him away from her to keep the meet and greet line moving.

Belle saw him too and gave a little wave to stave him off.

She spoke, forcing his attention back on her when he wanted nothing more than to slink away with what little of his dignity he had left. When she talked, his mind became completely absorbed in her words. He was supposed to be short with this woman, push Bae in front of her for a photo, then get them out of there and on with their lives, which included moving to another continent to avoid this woman and people like her. She stole his song, he smarted, they were standing here talking about it. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to stay mad at her. Now she wouldn’t let him out from under her spell. 

“I wrote that song,” she told Gold. She didn’t sound mad, or threatened. More like she wanted to discuss it with him, which was absurd. 

“Like I said,” he responded tersely. He looked away, trying to catch the guard’s eye and force him to move them along, “coincidence.”

The photographer, who had had enough waiting around, called out, “Photo in three, two…!” Gold strayed out of the frame, letting Bae have his moment, but at the last second, he felt small, delicate fingers wrap around his bicep and yank him into frame. He leaned in and smiled automatically. The flash went off. 

Belle stood up straight from she’d leaned over Bae to lean her head close to his. The fruity smell of her hairspray lingered on his senses. “I’ve never written a song like that in my life,” she continued, unconcerned with the interruption or the impatient line behind them. 

God, would she not let it go? “I’m not surprised,” he muttered. 

She gasped, “Excuse me?” 

That got the guard’s attention finally, and he sprung back into action, eager to punt Gold out of the arena. But she held out her arm again, “No, it’s okay, Steve.”

She’d sounded offended, but her eyes sparkled in response to Gold’s challenging tone.

No, Steve, I’m sorry, come back, please, he thought. Take me away from this woman. 

She crossed her arms like she had all day and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain himself. It was as if she knew she was torturing him, but kept on for the fun of it. 

“It’s just it’s unlike anything else you sing,” he offered. 

Her eyes sparked in defiance. “I have the lyrics in a notebook,” she told him haughtily. “In my own handwriting.” 

That was it. He scoffed, squared his shoulders to her, crossed his own arms to mirror her, and leaned in close. “So do I,” his deep timbre rumbled in his chest. 

She smiled as if he’d said the most marvelous thing. “Do you-” she cut off, as if remembering where there were. She glanced around self-consciously, suddenly aware of all the eyes on them. Her confidence that had reeled him in so effectively moments before fell away. 

Gold somehow knew what she was going to say. He swore she was about to say “want to get out of here?” He’d almost finished the sentence for her. Honestly, he didn’t know why, but his answer would have been yes. 

He felt an overwhelming sense of pity for this woman. Her eyes darted around like that of a trapped ferret. Standing next to her, he could feel the weight of the scrutiny and expectation on her. 

Gold could only explain what happened next as some sort of mania overtaking him. His eyes flashed over her shoulder at the photo op backdrop. It only took him a second to get his bearings. Behind them, down the long hall, was an emergency exit, the same one that had led Milah and Killian out of his life all those years ago. He was hyper aware of the hundreds of people milling about around them. Not to mention the queue still formed behind him and Bae.

He put one hand on Bae’s shoulder and angled them away from Belle as if they were saying goodbye. He didn’t miss the inexplicable panic and sadness in her eyes. “Trust me?” he murmured to Belle, trying not to tip Steve off to his hairbrained idea. 

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.

Bae’s eyes volleyed back and forth between them, sensing something was about to happen.

Still looking into Belle’s eyes, Gold wrapped one hand around Bae’s wrist.

“C’mon,” he grabbed Belle’s satin covered hand with his other and yanked her behind him as he made a break for it. She let out a yelp of surprise, but gamely followed. Gold skidded past Steve the Barbarian, who truly wished to kill him now, pulling Belle and Bae with him.

They slipped around the backdrop and down the concrete hall. He saw the red Exit sign he was searching for, but it was much further away than he remembered. He heard the static of a walkie talkie and the pounding of Steve’s heavy footfalls behind them. 

“Go!” Belle implored and the desperation he heard in her voice pushed him past the throb of his ankle and the three of them sped up. 

Nearing the exit, he dropped Bae’s hand to shoulder the door open, letting them out onto a fire escape. He barely registered the alarm that opening the door had set off. He let go of Belle when they neared the bottom. He threw his weight onto the bottom rung, dropping the ladder and allowing them to reach the ground. He got halfway down before leaping the rest of the way. His ankle screamed in pain but the rest of him felt more alive than he had in thirteen years. He reached up to help Belle down, his hands around her waist. Belle safely reached the bottom, her heel only getting caught once. Bae jumped off the ladder behind her, beaming at them. 

Steve was still in hot pursuit and Gold doubted he was the only one. He crouched down, taking one end of the ladder.

“Help me, Bae.” Bae took the other and together they threw the ladder back up so it suspended in the air, throwing an extra roadblock in Steve’s way. 

Belle was bouncing on her heels nervously, watching Steve’s approach. 

“This way,” Gold sprinted down the alley away from the arena, headed back towards downtown, Bae and Belle following. They came to a halt a couple streets away from the Staples Center. That’s when his brain caught up with him. Gold froze on the sidewalk. Christ. He’d just kidnapped an international pop star. What the hell was he thinking?

Belle instinctively seemed to know. “Thanks,” she smiled at him, taking a big deep breath of fresh night air, like she hadn’t had access to it in weeks.

It was a Friday night in a very busy city and people were entering and spilling out of the bars, restaurants, and nightclubs all around them. Removed from the context of the concert, standing between Gold and Bae in their frayed jeans, Belle’s stage makeup appeared especially overdone. Her skin sparkled and the shine of her red dress caught the street lamp lights. Even in L.A. she was beginning to draw stares.

“I gotta get out of these clothes,” she said urgently. 

“I got an idea.” Gold, distracted from the madness of what he’d done by a more pressing concern, judged the distance and the crowd beginning to form around them. “Can you hang in there for two more blocks?”

She inhaled, anxiety making her breath hitch. “Yeah,” she answered determinedly.

“Alright, let’s go.” The three of them started a quick walk across the crosswalk to put a busy road between them and the growing number of people.

“Is that her?” He heard someone from the crowd behind them. A flash of light from somebody’s phone lit up the sidewalk. The last thing he needed was someone calling the cops and showing them a picture of the man leading a famous singer down a dark alley. They heard a growing group of sneakers pounding the pavement behind them.

“Run,” he urged under his breath. The three of them broke into a trot. Surprisingly, even in her towering stage heels, she easily kept up. Bae, running between them, let out a laugh. Gold, thinking abducting a pop star wasn’t exactly funny, glanced over at Belle. But she was smiling even wider and let out a yelp of glee in response, leaping in the air over a crack in the pavement. She gathered up her dress around her, freeing her legs to run faster. Even Gold chuckled as they sprinted down the pavement. They ran and ran, not talking and not stopping to catch their breaths. 

“Right,” Gold directed them, taking them down another alleyway. The group made a sharp turn, then taking a left when Gold urged them. Finally, when Gold had weaved them between enough buildings to have lost anyone following them, he stopped.

“Here,” Gold pointed at a green door with peeling paint. Bae renched it open and they tumbled in behind him. Gold stumbled into Belle and he automatically put an arm around her to steady her. They were all laughing and catching their breaths.

Bae leaned over, his hands on his knees. “That,” he panted, “was awesome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I’m playing generously with L.A. and Staples Center geography to make this work. I didn’t have time to do extra homework. 
> 
> *We’re gonna pretend The Staples Center open before 1999.


	7. Chapter 7

They’d come through the back door of a thrift shop. It wasn’t a general thrift shop but a curated collection of funky clothes with a mix of old high-end and designer pieces that Gold liked and Bae found interesting. Rockabilly was blaring through the speakers and the saleswoman, not a woman they’d seen before, greeted them like they hadn’t just burst into her store from the back alley with an international pop star in an evening gown in tow.

He’d brought them here, thinking it could be the answer to her highly inappropriate clothes problem. But it occurred to Gold that they might not be Belle’s style.

As if she’d read his mind, she turned to him, “This stuff is great!” she exclaimed, diving into the racks like a kid on Christmas morning. 

Okay, so at least if the police burst in here right now she might at least testify that she’d been taken hostage with her cooperation. 

Bae ambled up to him then, nudging him with his shoulder. When Gold glanced at him, Bae wiggled his eyebrows.

He shook his head, miming “what’s that supposed to mean?” back to him. 

He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Dad, just, keep an open mind,” he jabbed his head at Belle, who had her back to them, sorting through hangers.

Gold had a vision of his son at that moment. It was four short years until he was 18 and the world officially took him away from him. He’d be tall and confident and his own person. But apparently fourteen was old enough to give his old papa dating advice. 

She’d wandered over to the intimates. She was looking interestedly at a blue lace see-through teddy hanging on the wall with a matching blue tutu that looked like it untied into something even more revealing. On a shelf next to it sat matching heels trimmed in fluffy blue fake fur. An inappropriate thought about how well the set would match her eyes came to him. He quickly looked away and took refuge in the men’s side where Bae was trying on a vinyl canary yellow jacket that dwarfed him.

“Is this Betsey Johnson?” Belle asked the saleswoman, inadvertently bringing his attention back to her and the lingerie. Picturing her in the lingerie while giving him the same devilish smile she’d given him at the meet and greet.

“Yeah,” the woman at the counter answered impressed. “The 2015 Spring/Summer collection.”

Belle nodded, grabbed a handful of things, thankfully not the blue negligee, and disappeared behind the curtain that served as a dressing room. Gold tried really hard not to imagine her naked.

Only a moment later, Belle peeked out behind the curtain.

“This is embarrassing,” she blushed, “but could someone unzip me?” She gestured to the zipped looked at the three of them helplessly. “There’s usually a team of people to get me in and out of these things,” she added, pointing over her shoulder to the zipper at her back, her cheeks a pretty shade of pink.

He clamped a hand hard down on Bae’s shoulder when he jumped to run to her aid. It also served to hold himself in place.

Thankfully, the saleswoman came to Belle’s assistance.

Fifteen minutes later the curtain was yanked back again revealing a whole new Belle. She was wearing fitted jeans with holes ripped strategically from the upper thigh to the shin. Over that was a loose blue tank top, the lace of her black bra peeking out from the scoop neck and the low arm holes. She’d ditched the crimson heeled boots for Converse. Overall, it was downright modest compared to what she’d been wearing, yet still sexier than her red stage outfit. Not only that, she’d wiped off most of her makeup except the charcoal around her eyes and pulled her hair up in a messy bun. She looked fresh faced, relaxed, and a little bit dangerous. 

She held the the tags she’d pulled off the clothes she was wearing in one hand, her discarded costume in the other. “Even trade?” she offered the saleswoman. 

She immediately agreed and Gold suspected, despite downplaying it, the woman knew exactly who she was bartering with.

“Enjoy your night,” she told Belle. It might have been Gold’s imagination but the three words sounded loaded with meaning. 

He coughed, “Ready?”

Belle and Bae followed him out of the store, Belle now blending in seamlessly. Once they hit the pavement, Gold struggled with what to do now. Where the hell do you take a famous singer after you’ve kidnapped her? Was she hungry? Done with her little adventure and ready to return to her real life? 

Apparently, Bae already had an idea. “Can we show her the place?”

To her credit, Belle looked inquisitive and not scared out of her mind by that very ambiguous sentence. But Gold still hesitated. It was his and Bae’s little secret. He wasn’t immediately keen to share it with a stranger.

“It’s out spot,” he tried to explain to Belle. “You don’t have to come. I know you have to get back.”

Belle stared at the nighttime crowds around them, now pushing past her as if she was a lost tourist blocking their way and not someone a music label had probably insured for a billion dollars. She smiled serenely as if he’d taken her to a zen garden and not a bustling L.A. street. She shook her head, “No, I want to come with you.”

So they began the long walk to their new destination, Gold trying to ignore how odd it was. Strange, despite who she was and despite the circumstances, her being there didn’t feel uncomfortable. In a bizarre way, she fit in with him and Bae. She felt familiar. 

Bae must have felt the same because the worship had left his eyes and now he chatted with Belle easily. He pointed landmarks out to her like she was a martian come to Earth. Gold was about to tell him to stop acting like Belle needed to be navigated around the city she probably lived in, but she did look like she’d been let out for the first time. 

Gold jammed his hands in his pockets. What the hell did he talk to a pop star about? It’s not like their time in the music industry had anything in common. 

“I liked your show,” he offered.

She looked up at him, impossibly young, then let out a loud burst of laughter. “No you didn’t,” she gave him a little push. 

He smiled guiltily, unable to contradict her. 

“I did actually like your Bangles cover though,” he fessed. She’d done “Walk Like an Egyptian” as one of her encore songs and he hadn’t hated it. 

She grinned, bumping into him, “I got to pick that one,” she told him proudly. They fell in step with each other. “It was nice of you to bring your son, though.” 

He was about to admit to her how Bae had won tickets when she came to a sudden stop. 

“God, I don’t even know your names!” she exclaimed. 

There. She’d returned to her senses and would want to get away from them now as fast as humanly possible and get back to the arena. Gold committed himself to helping her undo the mistake of running away with them in any way he could. The idea of her suffering any ramifications of his stupidity made him sick. 

“I’m Belle,” she told them earnestly instead, looking between Gold and Bae as if they hadn’t already known. 

It was such an endearing thing to say Gold almost choked on his laughter. 

“This is Bae,” he told her, “I’m-”

“Rumford but don’t call him that cuz he hates it,” Bae instructed automatically. 

That made him sound insufferably fussy but before he could explain, Bae shouted, “We’re home!” and went running ahead of them. 

Bae threw his hands up, framing the mangled apartment building between his hands as if presenting Belle with some great prize. 

Gold could only imagine how ratty it looked compared to the mansion she was sure to live in.

“Yes, but,” Gold rushed to assure her. “It’s something else. It’s nice, I promise.” He held out his hand to her before he realized how forward and inappropriate that was. But instead of looking mortified or offended, she smiled and slid hers into his before he could drop his arm.

Her palm, with the stage gloves removed, was soft and warm in his. It occurred to him he hadn’t held someone’s hand in over eight years, when Bae had grown out of it. 

He led her into the building and, with no elevator, they climbed the stairs, bypassing the door to their apartment and continuing up until they reached a dead end with a locked door. Gold step forward and jerked the door handle in just the right way, hitting it with his shoulder in just a certain spot, and forcing the door to pop open. 

A few more steps and they were let out onto an unexceptional concrete and brick roof. In the corner were some wood pallets with an old couch set on top. An old wood coffee table sat in front if it with a few candles on top. A rusty chair cover with a blanket was next to that. A pot with a plant that had seen better days with some old cigarette butts in the soil completed the decor. 

But it wasn’t their sad decorating style they’d brought her up here for, but the view of L.A. at night. 

“Wow,” Belle breathed, walking out to get a better look. The city flickered all around them. The sound of traffic, oppressive when you were on the street, was a gentle dinn this high up. 

Bae dove onto couch and laid out. While Belle’s back was turned, Gold swatted Bae’s feet so Belle would have a place to sit. They obviously weren’t used to company. Gold took the chair with the uneven legs. Bae reached under the couch and brought out the cheap guitar he’d bought for three dollars at a garage sale. It was basically a toy, there was no need for anything better since Bae had only shown a passing interest in playing music, but they kept it up here to fiddle with on occasion. He handed it to Gold with the unspoken request to tune it for him. 

Gold took it by the neck and brought it to his lap, strumming and twisting the tuning pegs until each string was in harmony. A melody and some words came to him and he played the song without the lyrics a few times through so he’d remember it later. 

Instead of taking the space he’d forced Bae to clear for her, Belle perched on the coffee table facing him, her knees brushing his. “What’s that?”

He shook his head, “Nothing.”

“Yes, it is,” she pushed. “I hear it too.” 

He didn’t know what she meant by that. Lyrics were swirling in his head, but he was self-conscious about sharing them with her because they were inspired by her and could potentially creep her out. 

“Play it,” she urged. 

He started strumming before launching into the lyrics, spontaneous prose about her beauty, the foolishness she roused in him, and the night they’d had. He lowered his head, concentrating on the chords and blocking out her reaction. 

Tonight the sky above  
Reminds me how to love  
Walking through wintertime, the stars all shine

He dared a glance up. She’d leaned forward and was staring at him. He took a deep breath.

The angel on the stairs  
Will tell you I was there  
Under the front porch light  
On the mystery night

She mouthed the last line with him and he balked. How did she know the lyrics? He was making it up as he went along. He stumbled going into the chorus.

I've been sitting, watching life pass from the sidelines  
Been waiting for a dream to seep in through my blinds  
I wondered what might happen if I left this all behind

She joined him on the last three lines, her dulcet tone strong and confident. 

Would the wind be at my back?  
Could I get you off my mind  
This time?

He wanted to stop, to ask her how the hell she knew what he was going to say before he said it. She was literally reading his mind, finishing his thoughts. But he couldn’t stop now. The rush of creating was too powerful. 

The neon lights and bars  
And headlights from the cars  
Started a symphony surrounding me

She interrupted him, finishing the rest.

The things I left behind  
Have melted in my mind  
And now there's a purity inside of me

These weren’t her lyrics. She wasn’t adding her own lines. They were his. 

They sang the chorus together two more times. The reverberation of the guitar faded. 

“How did we do that?” she whispered, just as full of wonder as he was. 

How did he write songs she’d already recorded? How did she pen lyrics he’d shared with no one? How did she know what was in his mind? The only explanation was there was no explanation. So he told her the only thing he could come up with. 

“Magic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Song: This Time. Songwriters: Chris Trapper. Performed by: Jonathan Rhys Meyers.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter ventures into Mature territory.

Belle gravitated closer to him the whole time they were singing, as if proximity was helping her read his mind. She couldn’t explain how she’d done it. The lyrics were popping into her head, sung in his voice, and she echoed them.

When he looked up on the last chorus they were so close. She liked the way the shorter strands of his long hair framed the confusion and wonderment in his dark eyes. It was as if he couldn’t explain their connection, so he couldn’t entirely trust it yet.

Her knees, exposed through the rips in the demin, rested against the inside of his, the guitar on his thighs between them. She’d chosen these clothes at the thrift shop because they were unpolished, relaxed, and nothing that ever would have been picked out for her. Whereas her usual clothes, the ones the label supplied for her, forced her to sit primly and quietly erect, these clothes allowed her to lounge, not worried if her legs lolled apart. Belle leaned forward, her elbows resting on her thighs. She felt the night breeze rustle through the wide armholes of her tank top, causing the gaping neckline to flutter.

Gold glanced down at the movement, then his eyes snapped back up to hers.

She knew the way she sat forward exposed even more of the black lace of the bra she wore underneath, but she didn’t care. There were no paparazzi here, or impressionable young fans, or her father. She was simply a woman, having an enchanting, impetuous night with a man she felt a connection with.

She knew she’d just met him tonight but she liked him. Really liked him. Everything about him, his hair, his eyes, the ring on his right pinky, the chain and cord bracelet around his wrist, told a deeper story. She was a sucker for a good story.

He told her what they had was magic. Then if this was a spell, she wanted to see how far it was cast.

She flicked her gaze to his mouth. His lips were already parted. This was so new and delicate, she didn’t want to ruin it. But it felt so right. The perfect moment to cap off a miraculous evening. Or lead to more. She leaned in slowly. He bent towards her, the cheap guitar creaking in protest. Belle felt confident enough to close her eyes.

Then Bae let out a heavy snore from the couch. Their eyes flew open and they jerked apart, like two kids caught by their parents. Belle covered her face and let out a nervous giggle. She was so caught up in the moment, she’d honestly forgotten he was there. She peaked through her fingers to see Gold smiling at her softly.

He chuckled quietly. “I used to bring him up here when he couldn’t sleep when he was little,” he told her, standing up and taking the blanket off his chair and tucking it around Bae.

“C’mon,” he held his hand out to her in the way she loved. She took it and he helped her stand. She glanced back at Bae as he towed her toward the door.

“He’ll be fine,” he told her. “He sleeps up here all the time. He’ll come wondering down if he gets cold.”

It struck her that a teen boy got more freedom that she, a grown woman, ever had.

She’d spent a whole evening with a stranger and his son, yet she felt completely comfortable around them. Something occurred to her as they descended the stairs. “I think it was your accent,” she told him. “I recognized it from the song, the one in my head, before I met you. So when you came to the meet and greet, it was as if I already knew you.”

“Why did you record it?” he asked her. He didn’t release her hand, but she heard a tightness in his voice.

“Because I thought it was brilliant,” he told him honestly. “And I knew I’d never be allowed to release a song like that,” she added. She pushed the image of her father, and how angry he was sure to be with her, away. She didn’t want to talk about him. She didn’t want to think about him. Tonight, even if it was only tonight, was for her and her alone.

“So I recorded it with my friends and they leaked it for me.” They stopped at his apartment door. “Are you angry I did?” she asked him.

He took both her hands in his, really thinking about it. “No,” he told her finally. “You sounded beautiful singing it,” he told her pensively.

He let go of her to unlock the door, gesturing for her to enter first.

“Do you think we could control it, this thing we have?”

He shook his head, “There’s no controlling anything,” he assured her, tossing his keys on a table, “especially in art.”

She considered his words. She hadn’t thought of what she did as art before.

The apartment was small, but it looked and felt like a real home to Belle. The large house she shared with her father looked like a showhome, cold and flashy. Here there were lots of books and instruments laying around. Strikingly, there were pages and pages of notebook paper with what she assumed were lyrics written on them pasted on the walls.

She took a turn about the room, admiring the poetry she read. They were contemplative and honest, just like the man himself. She paused when she found some in fresher ink, the lyrics not as sober as the others. One page was the single that her label had just released. Another was her first clumsy try at songwriting, before his complete song had come to her. It was surreal to see her thoughts in his cramped, male handwriting.

“Has this ever happened to you before?” Not until she asked the question did she think how disappointed she’d be if he had this mind meld with others. That she wasn’t the only one, that she wasn’t special.

“No, never,” he told her from where he stood by the door, watching patiently as she canvassed his home.

Where he stood was awfully close to a small, twin bed, the minimalist sheet and pillow suggesting it was his, which reminded her of the almost kiss on the roof and she blushed. Out from the spell of making music together, she no longer felt so gutsy. She took refuge by the shelves of records he had on the opposite wall.

“Wow,” she flipped through a dozen of them. They spanned decades. “I’ve never even heard of half of these people.” She ran her fingers over the worn spines.

She stopped at one she recognized, sliding Ryan Adams’ Demolition from its spot. “Mmm,” she hummed with pleasure, “I love this one.” The next shelf down was a small record player and she took the record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable.

She stood, turning back to him. White noise, then the twangy guitar intro of “Nuclear” emanated from the tiny speakers. They stood, awkwardly staring across the room at each other like kids at a middle school dance.

Belle chortled, trying to shake her nerves. They could read each other’s minds, why bother being bashful?

He must have reached the same conclusion because he offered his hand to her in a now familiar gesture. But this time, when she took it, he tugged her towards him, then lifted his arm to spin her. Her back rested against his chest for only a moment before he spun her back out. When she twirled to a stop he did a goofy shimmy and twist. It made her cackle so he did it again, this time grabbing her arms, forcing her to wobble along until she released any remaining apprehension and whirled around with him. They pranced around the room, pulling out every move they could think of to make each other laugh. She may dance for a living, but Belle spent most of the song bent over in giggle fits as he discoed and tangoed around her.

When the song ended, Belle was panting for breath from the laughter or the cavorting or both. When "Hallelujah" came on Gold pulled her into his chest, knocking what little air she had out in a whoosh. He extended their entwined hands, his other arm resting on her waist. He proceeded to spin them in circles until she was dizzy and tears of laughter leaked from her eyes. She buried her head against his chest, clutching both arms around his back, egging him on to go faster.

He ceased their circles to “You Will Always Be the Same,” but didn’t let her go. Instead, he drew her into a slow waltz. This was different from the silly dance off and the frenzied spinning. The jokiness had fallen away. Even in its simplicity, it was the most romantic gesture Belle had ever experienced. His eyes didn’t shift about the room, and he didn’t pull her closer so he could look over her shoulder at the floor. He watched her face the entire time. Instead of making her shy, his attention lured her into the fantasy he was weaving around them. She was relieved he was holding onto her because if not she would have swooned into a puddle on the floor. She spent the entire song savoring each little feeling, his long fingers clenching around her waist, her arm wrapped around his neck and his hair brushing against her skin, his solid chest, the way he looked at her like she was something precious. She breathed in the smell that was uniquely him, clean outdoor air and guitar string cleaner.

By the time “Desire” came on any pretense of a waltz was abandoned. He slowly swayed them back and forth. One hand rested on her lower back, gently pressing her hips to his. His other hand slowly caressed her hip to right below her breast and back in a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Both her hands wrapped around his neck, the fingers of one hand sinking into his silky hair.

She brought her forehead to rest against his.

"Do you think what we have only applies to music?” she murmured.

He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” he told her softly.

She smiled. “Are you reading my mind right now?" she asked.

He pulled back to study her. “I don’t know if I’m reading your mind or it’s my own hopes I’m hearing.”

Then he kissed her and she didn't care whose idea it was.

This time, when his hands reached her hips they slipped beneath her tank top. His fingertips, calloused from years of guitar playing, scraped against her bare stomach front to back while he angled his mouth to kiss her deeper. Belle senses were heightened and completely keyed in to everything about him and what he was doing to her. The heat coming off his chest. The comparatively cool air rushing across the skin he’d exposed to the window air conditioning. The rough patches developing on his chin and cheeks, despite beginning the night clean shaven. The deep, noisy breathes they took through their noses so they wouldn’t have to break apart for even a moment.

His hands didn’t wander any farther than her waist and Belle was certain that he would do nothing to push her further tonight. That he would be happy just having her like this. That she was enough. But nothing about this felt rushed. More like the coda to the song they started even before they met at her concert tonight. The idea of not taking this any further tonight left her feeling bereft. Like a magician’s handkerchief, once Belle tugged on one end, she felt compelled to keep pulling until the other end was freed.

There was no anxious twinge in her stomach, like her first time with Gaston. This was a pleasant tightening, like pulling back a guitar string but not letting go. The potential to make something beautiful was only a moment away, if you just let go. Wanting to create something more with him tonight, Belle gripped his wrists and tugged his hands up, lifting both her arms in the air. He took the invitation and broke the kiss only long enough to peel her shirt off in one smooth motion, flinging it to the floor. Instead of using his eyes to take her in, he pulled her flush against him. He was tactile with her. Learning her by feel and gaining familiarity, like with a new instrument. He used his hands to memorize the contour of her waist and hips, the elegant curvature the black lace made of her breasts, the arch of her spine.

Again, she knew instinctively that he wouldn’t unsnap the button of her jeans or urge her onto the bed. He took only what she freely gave him. That made it easy for her to peel the collar of his flannel away from his neck, fastening her mouth around the skin she found there. He tasted salty from all the running they’d done. He shook the button down off, freeing him to rip the t-shirt that was under it off as well, giving her access to what she’d already permitted him.

This tit for tat she was comfortable with. It was just like writing a song with him. She supplied the first two lines of a verse, and he finished her thought. When she’d explored his chest with caresses mirroring his own, she unbuttoned her own jeans, shoving them down her legs. He immediately fumbled with his own waistband. She toed off her sneakers to completely rid herself of the denim. He answered by shucking his, continuing to kiss and touch her all the while.

Belle placed her hands on his chest, gently extracading herself. She kept touching him, to let him know she wasn’t rejecting him. Looking in his eyes, she felt she knew what a real spell looked like. His breath was labored, him already dark eyes were clouded over and he shook himself and blinked, bringing himself back to the moment.

She stood before him in her bra and panties. Honestly, it wasn’t anything different than what she wore in some of her shows and photoshoots. But she’d never been comfortable with it. She’d never found being mostly naked in front of a fully clothed crowd to be empowering or fun, like other performers did. She was used to seeing the hungry eyes of strangers devouring her body and she hadn’t realized how fearful she was to see the same selfish gaze from him. She hesitated, studying his face. There was desire there, definitely, but his appreciation of her wasn’t calculating. There was some reverence, but instead of being completely focused on her, she saw his own insecurities reflected back at her. Belle breathed a sigh of relief. He was real. She wasn’t alone on display. He wasn’t hooking up with a pop star. There were no hidden motives. He wasn’t going to tweet about this afterwards. He wasn’t going to slip a USB filled with demos in her pocket later. He was in the moment with her, bringing his own life and history and self-doubt with him and asking her to accept him.

That she could do.

She walked backwards until the cold metal of the bed frame touched her calves. The hurt and confusion in his eyes lasted only until she offered her hand to him, mimicking his usual move. He smiled, relieved, and took it.

She tugged him to follow her when she lowered herself to the bed and reclined back, covering her body with his. The thin fabric of their underwear left little to the imagination. She felt the distinct outline of him on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He froze on top of her, sensing her jolt underneath him.

She didn’t want him to mistake her relative inexperience for hesitation. Just in case he couldn’t read her mind, she boldly wrapped her legs around his waist, yanking him flush up against the heat between her legs. He let go of the breath he was holding in a long, sputtering exhale and slammed his eyes shut.

“I want this,” she told him. No, that wasn’t enough. That made it sound like she was just looking for sex, a one night stand. “I want you.”

She felt him twitch between her legs. That got his attention. He’d been so careful with her, up to this point. Letting her take the lead, finishing her movements. She was writing a bridge, giving him permission to make what they were creating into his own vision as well.

He nodded and she released her legs so they could remove the last barriers between them. She was whipping off her bra when a sudden look of complete panic overcame him. He was naked, looking at the floor, muttering to himself. Was he regretting this already? Had he thought of a song lyric? She concentrated but heard nothing.

He shook his finger at her, miming to wait one moment.

She sat up on her forearms to watch him cross the room to the more cluttered corner, obviously Bae’s, and shuffle through the pile of school books and papers heaped on a tiny desk, knocking some to the floor, which didn’t deter him.

“Aha,” he found something and returned to her, holding the shiny red square condom packet aloft. “Ninth grade health class. Thank the California public school system.”

She threw her head back and laughed, “Won’t he miss it?”

Gold shook his head seriously as he climbed back onto the bed, ripping the wrapper open with his teeth and resuming his position hovering over her, “Not as much as I would be.”

She giggled again, which turned into a hum when his mouth descended to her neck. She felt him fiddling with the condom between them.

He pulled back to look at her, “Ready?”

She smiled at the concern she saw there. “Yeah,” she breathed, bringing one hand to his cheek.

He lowered his head so their foreheads touched. “Belle,” he whispered when he finally sank into her.

Belle heard her name spoken dozens of times a day. Paparazzi yelled it, fans chanted it, tv and radio hosts announced it. But Rumford Gold expressed it with true feeling. She rarely went a day without at least one person coming up to her to tell her how much they “love” her. But he said her name with real affection.

Despite their intimate act, he studied her face attentively as he moved inside her, first in shallow thrusts, then slow deep ones, adjusting his tempo based on her reaction. He could easily have gotten lost in bliss, leaving her responsible for her own. Instead he helped her chase her own gratification. He didn’t rush her toward climax. Belle had never had a partner willing to help her explore the intricacies of pleasure. In that, she was usually a solo act. She was satisfied to know she hadn’t been wrong about him, that they’re duet abilities extended beyond songwriting. She explored, trying her legs at different heights. On the mattress lifting to match his trusts, then locked around his lower back, then higher with her knees by his shoulders. Each change in position helped her progress up the scales of pleasure. She’d only begun to imagine the other possibilities when she let her knees fall wide to her sides. The arrangement brought a stretch to her thighs that added to the pleasant sensations swelling inside her, making her breath hitch. Gold caught her reaction, reaching one hand between them to massage her center. He thrust at a steady rhythm letting her response build, build, build.

“Oh,” was all she could get out before her crescendo, leaving her breathless and limp beneath him.

His pace became erratic and his head fell to her shoulder as he reached his own apex.

Afterwards they lay curled together on the cramped mattress, catching their breath.

Belle couldn’t help it, a bubble of blissful laughter emanated from her. She grinned at him, “Redux?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided I'd rather update more frequently than wait until the longer version of this chapter was written, so it's getting split into two. Thanks to everyone for reading/kudo-ing/commenting. This story will update every Monday until it's finished.

She must have dozed because the next time she opened her eyes the sun streamed through the window and onto the mattress in front of her where she sprawled naked under a thin white sheet. She didn’t know what time it had been when they’d fallen into his bed. She’d left her phone backstage at the Staples Center. Not knowing the exact time time had contributed to the dreamlike state of the whole evening. One she wouldn't trade for anything.

Before she opened her eyes she took a moment to rewind the previous night in her head. No regrets. No feelings of embarrassment. Just the opposite, she thought, a pleasurable chill traveling down her spine, the way his fingers had. Nothing about this felt like a one night stand. It felt like the beginning of something that she couldn't imagine ever ending. They could read each other’s minds. How could they ever part now, knowing how effortlessly they made music and love together. They’d be linked forever. Belle felt completely comfortable with the idea. But she worried how he felt about it. Discovering you can telepathically compose music with another human being would freak the average guy out. Taking on an indefinite romantic relationship with that person was something else entirely. She knew enough from Ruby’s exploits how commitment phobic many men could be. Would he be as eager as she was to continue their relationship?

Faint music penetrated and dissipated her anxious thoughts. Belle realized that she’d been lured awake by a mellow guitar. When she’d closed her eyes Rum, as she’d taken to humming in pleasure last night, had been curled up naked with her. He’d since thrown on jeans and a black undershirt. He was barefoot, hunched over his guitar at the end of the bed. She silently watched him produce, admiring the way the sunlight glinted off the ring on his pinky. His voice was serene and his fingering on the guitar smooth and confident. He didn’t use a pick, but strummed and sang softly.

Not talkin' 'bout a year  
No not three or four  
I don't want that kind of forever  
In my life anymore  
Forever always seems  
To be around when it begins  
But forever never seems  
To be around when it ends

He paused to scratch something down on the clean sheet of paper he’d tacked to the wall. He positioned himself back over the guitar, shaking his hair out of his face, and glanced up at her face. Surprised to find her awake and caught staring at her, he smiled back at her and pivoted towards her on the bed to serenade her with the tender chorus.  
  
So give me your forever  
Please your forever  
Not a day less will do, from you

He let the last note fade out. He tilted his head, the affectionate gaze never leaving his face.

“Not sure if they’re mine or yours anymore,” he told her.

“Does it matter?” she ventured hesitantly, still fretful despite his devoted lyrics.

The grin he gave her warmed her insides. “I suppose not.” He licked his top lip, and held up a hand, gesturing that he wasn’t through. He fished a pick out of his jeans pocket and resumed the melody.  
People spend so much time  
Every single day  
Runnin' 'round all over town  
Givin' their forever away  
But no not me, I won't let my forever roam  
And now I hope I can find my forever home

Belle’s fingers curled around the edge of the flimsy sheet, preparing to fling it off, grab the straps of his undershirt, and drag him to lie down on top of her. The pink enameled toes of one foot peaked out from under the blanket and began a slow ascent up his denim-clad thigh.

So give me your forever  
Please your forever  
Not a day less will do, from you  
“Where’s Bae?” she asked, glancing at the door to the apartment. Anyone who opened it would get an eyeful and she hoped Bae hadn’t stumbled down in the middle of the night and been traumatized. Now that she and his father were talking about forever, it wouldn’t do to expose herself to her future stepson.  
“I sent him to his friend’s,” he replied, realization dawning. He slid the guitar off his lap and leaned it against the wall. “He was more than happy to go,” he chuckled, climbing up the bed. He reached both hands behind him, gathering the material of his shirt and pulling it over his head.  
“I hope his friend has an Xbox and a lot of junk food,” she told him, ripping the cover off.

***

“Go on, play it.”

He was sitting up, leaning against the wall. She sat between his legs, reclining against his chest, the guitar held in front of her. They were both naked again. The polished wood was cold against her breasts but his back felt warm and familiar. His arms draped over her, his hands resting lightly over hers as he gently pressed her fingertips onto the frets and strummed.

“I don’t know how,” she giggled, trying to stretch her fingers to match his long ones. “I’ve always wanted to learn. My mom knew. She was a folk singer. She started to teach me, before she died. But I haven’t played since.” The story came out easily to him, which didn’t surprise her anymore. She hardly talked to anyone about her mother. Her father stiffened whenever Colette’s name was spoken and there wasn’t anyone else in her life to keep her memory alive with.

In her reverie, she’d mistakenly put her finger on the third string instead of the forth, making a dischordiant strum. She slapped the strings with her palm in frustration.

“Sorry,” she apologized immediately for hitting his instrument.

Instead of being mad, he studied where she’d whacked, “Do it again.”

She shrugged and hit the fretboard in roughly in the same spot.

He immediately answered it with a proper strum of a chord that complimented it in perfect harmony.

She clapped the neck of the guitar somewhere different and he answered it again. Faster and faster, somehow her clumsy slapping and his strumming turned into something beautiful. Back and forth they went, the ideas flowing between them effortlessly. The music was only broken when she leaned back in his arms and kissed him.

“Why don’t you write a song about her?” he asked, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, when she finally pulled back. “Your mother.”

The idea had never occurred to Belle. She wasn’t even in the habit of talking about her. She’d never shared the pain of losing her mother with anyone. She didn’t know how she felt about the idea of sharing it publicly. She didn’t know how Rumford did it. He shared his feelings so effortlessly and fearlessly in song. She was learning to, through her connection to him. But it didn’t come to her naturally. She’d been denied the ability to express herself for so long by her father and his label. She wasn’t fully confident she could do it at all. Thinking about the responsibilities awaiting her at home forced all the warmth in her body to rush out in a whoosh. Her dad and all his label and tour cronies must be furious with her for running off.

She sighed, flopping her head back against Gold’s chest. “I’ll have to go back, eventually. I have soundcheck this afternoon.” The thought made a tight knot form in her stomach. She hadn’t been with him twenty-four hours, but the idea of leaving this apartment almost brought her to tears. But she couldn’t run away from her contracts and her responsibilities forever. Artists got sued for that sort of thing. She had a concert at the Hollywood Bowl later that week that was a done deal.

He brushed his nose back and forth over her shoulder. “I know,” he whispered, the melancholy tone telling her he understood and even felt the same way she did.

They sat in silence, holding each other, cherishing this moment in time they did have together.

“You could come back here, if you wanted,” he told her carefully. “I know it’s small, but…”

She shut down his uncertainty with a kiss. When she pulled back, she was beaming. “I would love that.” She wanted nothing more than to live in this apartment where she’d first known happiness, and creativity, and peace, and, if she was being honest with herself, love.

“I just have to do soundcheck, go home and grab my phone and some clothes. Then I have the Hollywood Bowl Saturday.” Her voice was lively and her eyes shone with possibility. She felt her life, a real life, blossoming in front of her. She ignored the threat of the already booked world tour hanging over her head. It would be fine. She could live her life with Rum and Bae here, making music and dancing and scouring the city for vintage clothes and spending evenings on the roof. She’d go off and do whatever concert obligations she was required to do, but in between she’d return here. This apartment, and the two men who had stolen her heart, would be her home. “I’ll put your and Bae’s name on the list, you could watch from backstage and then we could do something after.”

“Bae would love that,” he told her. “We both would,” he amended.

She squirmed in his arms. “I know I’m not your kind of music,” she demurred.

He kissed the top of her head. “Anything you sing will sound beautiful.”

She loved him for that little lie. He was savvy enough to know that she barely sang anything on stage besides a few hooks, accompanied by a vocal track.

He shook her gently, “C’mon, I’ll make us breakfast and take you back. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can return to us.”

With that promise of more to come, they were able to finally leave the bed and start pulling on their clothes. She turned her underwear inside out and slid them on with her jeans. It would do for now until she could get back to her father’s house and pack a bag. She hooked her bra back on and bent to pluck her tank top off the floor. It was a crumpled mess. She tried to flatten it out with her hands. The only thing worse that seeing her father after running away was seeing her father after running away wearing what was obviously the previous night’s clothes.

“Would you mind if I borrowed something?” She held up the rumpled shirt and pointed to his small particle board closet.

He nodded from the kitchenette where he was redressed and taking out a pan and bowl to scramble eggs in. He had a kitchen towel tossed over his shoulder and the handsome domesticity of it warmed her. “Take whatever you want,” he told her.

Rifling through his wardrobe was like being back at the second hand shop again. It was jammed with soft, vintage t-shirts and well-worn flannels that smelled like him. Belle tugged one from the pile every so often to hold the fabric to her nose and inhale. She wanted the scent memory when she returned and faced whatever her father had in store for her. She dug further down into the heap of clothes. Her fingers brushed over something smooth and cool. She gripped hard and yanked.

“What are these?” she gasped. From the depths of his closet she’d extracted a pair of brown leather pants with leather cords that tied up the hips. The material was pliable. He’d obviously worn them a lot over the years.

His hand stilled over the stove, egg yolk dripping from his fingers. “Ah,” his cheeks actually pinked. He recomposed himself, attempting to brush her discovery off. He picked up another egg, hypervigilant on the task in front of him. “Remnants from another life.”

A real hot life. One she was resentful of having missed if it involved him wearing leather pants.

“Put them on,” she demanded.

He balked. “Belle, I don’t think they’d even fit any-”

She approached him slowly, as if in a trance, holding up the leather pants in front of her. If he couldn’t read the pure lust that clouded her eyes, then he was an idiot. “Put. Them. On.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *song credit “Forever” by Ben Harper


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing keeps growing in chapters because I’m trying this radical thing where I post an update every Monday whether I’m ready or not. Writing is hard.

It was another thirty minutes after she pressed the leather pants into his hands that he had breakfast ready for them. It had been relatively easy for him to get dressed afterwards because she had him keep the pants on when she’d climbed on top of him. She’d obviously been playing out some sort of fantasy, not that he minded. 

He hadn’t even remembered he had those pants. He assumed they’d disappeared with what remained of his music career and youthful swagger. She’d begged him to keep them on when they left for her soundcheck and he had, despite feeling damn foolish. But anytime he felt like an old man past his prime, he only had to look at her and see the man reflected back at him in her eyes. She squeezed his hand as they made their way across the parking lot and shot him a saucey smirk that made him wonder how they’d managed to make it out of his car in the first place.    

Psychic ability and sudden uptick in his sex life aside, Belle was an incredible woman. Yes, she was young and beautiful, but she wasn’t the pop singer writhing around on stage at the Staples Center or the woman lounging next to a bed on her album cover. She was by turns shy and bold. In her “new” clothes, she wasn’t some superstar plucked off the stage. She’d taken one of his white button down shirts with a hazel marrakech pattern on it and tied at the waist. She looked like the coolest girl at his favorite music festival. 

He’d never brought a woman back to the apartment, for obvious reasons, and he’d rarely if ever spent the night at a woman’s place because he always wanted to be home for Bae. For thirteen year they’d lived a bachelor existence full of cereal for dinner, cold spaghetti for breakfast, guitars, and headphones. But Belle breathed new life into the apartment that barely fit one person but somehow suited the three of them perfectly. When she’d danced with him in the apartment, she’d moved not like a pro or a woman trying to seduce, though she had, but a woman who was in a moment of pure joy with him. 

She’d called him Rumford a few times throughout the night and next morning and he hadn’t even cared. It sounded beautiful coming from her, just like Bae’s song. She’d thought he’d been angry that she’d recorded and released it. More painfully, it had made him wistful.  It was how Bae should have heard the song, from two parents who loved him, not just him. 

In these ridiculous pants, with Belle’s arm slung through his, it was as if the old part of his life and the new could coexist peaceably. Suddenly he was filled with hope and downright optimism. They didn’t have to leave Los Angeles.  He knew this was insane, they barely knew anything about each other. Yet in his mind he was imagining ways they could rig up another barrier between Bae’s side of the room and theirs for privacy. The apartment would never work long-term, but it could do in the meantime while they looked for a bigger place. Nothing fancy, nothing they couldn’t afford together. They’d already talked about what they could do with the songs they wrote together. If she couldn’t record them, they could sell them to other artists since barely anyone in town wrote their own music anymore. 

He’d been to the Hollywood Bowl for shows, but never got the opportunity to stride backstage like they were doing now. Watching her approach a stage that was all hers, he felt no jealousy. He could tell she was a caged bird, and an unhappy one, from the few times she’d mentioned her label and how restrictive they were. She never talked outright about how oppressive her management was, but he was getting the idea. He knew what they had together was an outlet, a release, for her in more ways than one. 

She turned to him excitedly as she bound up the stairs. “What if I sang our rooftop song at the concert? They’d never let me, but I could do it acapella or acoustic if you cut it down to a few chords and teach me. Once I’m out there performing it, no one can stop me. They won’t rush the stage or anything.” 

They came to a stop in the white cement hallway backstage. He was hesitant to let her go. They could be back home writing music together and ordering pizza with Bae. Instead he was leaving her to music industry piranhas who liked to dress her like a doll and wouldn’t give her an ounce of creative freedom.   

She looked up at him. “See you after? I’ll Uber back to your place.” 

He leaned down to kiss her so she wouldn’t catch the dark thoughts showing on his face. “I’ll show you the chords tonight.” His hands were still on her hips and she wasn’t making any move to leave.  

“There you are!” Some assistant with a headmic rushed past them. “Mr. French has been waiting for you,” she scolded Belle, completely ignoring him.  

Mr. French? 

Another assistant, equally unsympathetic to Belle, walked past them. “Moe’s so mad. You better have a good excuse. Everyone’s been wondering where you are.” This one paused long enough to give Gold a long up and down perusal where he stood, holding Belle’s hands in his. She must have found him wanting because she sniffed haughtily and turned on her heels.  

A loud whooshing sound rushed through his ears. His grip on Belle’s hands loosened.  

“Moe?” he said, his voice sounding very far away. “Did you say Moe Fr-” 

“Where have you been?” a voice thundered. Belle jumped and he felt the reverberation in his arms. “You disappeared! Do you know how hard it was not to let the press find out?”

Gold barely registered his words. He knew that voice. Moe French.  _ We own your songs now, boy. _

Gold watched in passive dismay as the pompous figure of Moe French appeared in front of them.    

His eyes raked critically over Belle. “What are you wearing?” he demanded. 

Belle visibly wilted. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes slid to the floor. Yet her hands gripped Gold’s hard. He wrenched one hand free. 

“Moe French,” Gold ground out, the name still playing on a loop in his head. He couldn’t believe it. Out of all the record labels in this godforsaken town, she was on his. 

Belle’s eyes popped up at his tone, alarmed. 

Moe looked at him like he didn’t recognize him. Then his eyes narrowed. “Rumford Gold,” Moe chucked ruefully. “Are you still hanging around this town, old boy? Still trying to make it? I thought I’d chased you out a decade ago.” He put his hand on Gold’s shoulder, like they were old friends. 

Gold jerked his body away, yanking his other hand out of Belle’s. The burn of past wounds ignited inside him. The band that had been his, the career he could have had, all those songs, all that young talent, wasted because of this man. 

Belle stood between them, silently looking back and forth at the silent conversation she didn’t understand. 

“Moe, we need you,” someone on staff called. “They’re requesting the okay on the set list and the costumes.” 

Moe nodded and smiled, turning to follow the assistant. “Rumford Gold,” he snickered again, like Gold had told him a great joke he was still mulling over. 

Gold whipped around to face Belle, recrimination in his eyes. 

“Moe French? Moe French is your manager?” he accused. 

“Well, yes,” she squeaked. Like he was already supposed to know. Then she said something even more devastating. “He’s my father.”   

Her  _ father _ . Belle was Moe French’s daughter. Belle French. He was sleeping with and planning a future with the daughter of the man who single-handedly ruined his life. 

At some point he’d begun to pace. He rubbed his hands over his face, the past 24 hours playing over in his head. What had he missed? How could this have been avoided?   

“Rum-” she reached out towards him.

He whirled away from her. “He took my songs, Belle. He stole my record and ended my career,” he ranted. 

“Wha-” she shook her head. “I don’t understand.” 

Now Gold was laughing, the maniacal laugh of a man who, just when he thought he had found something, discovered he’d lost everything. The classic joke life played on the fool. Turns out his past and his future couldn’t coexist. They were the same damn thing. 

“You never told me your last name,” he said. “‘I’m Belle,’” he parroted her introduction from the previous night back to her in a high pitched voice. “You knew. You knew I’d know who your father was and you didn’t tell me.” 

“What did it matter?” she cried angrily. “You weren’t with  _ him _ you were with  _ me _ ! I am not my father.” She shook her head, “I don’t know what my father did to you. But I’m not him. I’m not ‘Belle,’” she spat. “I’m not ‘Moe French’s daughter.’ I’m  _ me _ ,” her voice cracked. “I’m only me. And I thought you knew that,” she sobbed. 

She stood there, tears falling from her beautiful blue eyes. But he couldn’t see them. All he could see was Moe French’s daughter.   

Which is why it was so easy for him to turn his back on her and walk away forever.  


	11. Chapter 11

Through watery eyes Belle watched helplessly as the back that she’d spent the morning memorizing with her hands, those pants, the one person who really understood and accepted her, who shared something extraordinary with her, walked away. 

Not out of her life, surely. She blinked the tears away. He couldn’t seriously throw away everything they had together, the future they’d already planned, just because of who her father happened to be. She’d been honest. She’s asked him to accept her for who she was, who he  _ knew _ her to be. Yet, he’d made it look so easy. She’d stood right in front of him, pleading to not let something her father did over ten years ago destroy the connection they had...and he’d left. As if he could simply ignore that they could read each other’s minds when they wrote and feel each other’s emotions.  

Belle searched inside herself, using the ability she’d honed to reach out and feel his reassuring presence, but she couldn’t sense him underneath all the hurt and confusion. Was the pain his? Hers? Or were they sharing the same ache? She couldn’t tell anymore. Everything felt jumbled inside her. Was the telepathy gone? She let out a choked gasp. What if the...fight, whatever it was, had done irreparable damage to their ability, severing the connection? It was only one argument, she reassured herself. But it hadn’t felt like a fight. It had felt so...final. Maybe it wasn’t gone, maybe he’d just turned if off? Could one of them just turn if off? Maybe he didn’t want to be connected to her anymore.

She stood in the hallway, bereft. At some point someone took the wet noodle of her arm and dragged her out of the hallway. Belle surrendered herself. They shoved her in the middle of the stage, in front of the mic stand. She zombie walked her way through the rest of sound check. She barely registered the band behind her and the set list taped to the floor at her feet. When someone pointed at her, or played the opening notes, she sang automatically. It didn’t matter. The words were hollow. She was hollow. 

She’d sang these useless, meaningless songs so many times, her vocal cords went through the motions while her mind wandered. Honestly, it surprised her Rumford hadn’t know she was record producer Moe French’s daughter.  _ Everyone _ knew she was Moe’s daughter. There wasn’t a single article written about her that doesn’t state it outright in the first paragraph.

But it turned out he really didn’t know anything about her. Instead of making her heartbroken, Belle felt hopeful. They had a connection, beyond the telepathy, based on the little he knew of her. He didn’t know she was Moe French’s daughter and he’d spent time with her anyway. Belle had spent time with many people who, she only found out later, got close to her in order to find out what her father could do for them. Could she slip him their demo? Could he make them stars like he had with her? For the first time, someone  _ didn’t  _ want her because of Moe French. Then she was sad all over again because of what they’d lost.

What exactly had her father done to him? Something hurtful, obviously. The agonized, crushed look on Rumford’s face when he’d found out who she was authentic. She knew how cutthroat Moe could be. He ousted Ariel and Ruby after all. But she’d been shielded from her father’s dealings all her life. The majority of her childhood memories were of being with her mother. She never saw how Moe was with other artists he managed. By the time she was a teenager he’d divested himself of most of his stable of talent to focus solely on her career. 

The band abruptly stopped playing, jerking Belle back to the present. Back on stage, alone. 

The sound people dismissed her with a curt, “We’re good here,” and Belle wandered off the stage. Crews bustled around but very few people met her eyes. She was forced to dodge two men carrying a heavy case past her. Belle stood to the side, passively watching as her own concert was laid out without once being consulted. How easy it would be to submit to the “Belle” machine and succumb to the tide of her father’s will. But that wasn’t her, not anymore. She thought again of Ruby and Ariel and how they’d helped her release her own music. The surge of energy and nervous excitement. She’d chased that same feeling the night she ran off with Rum and Bae. How good it had felt to take control. She’d gotten a taste of freedom that week and she wanted more. 

From now on, no one was going to decide her fate but her. Not her father. Not even Rumford Gold. 

He may have given up on her. 

But she wasn’t. 

***

_ You're not young, you're not sexy.  _

_ You're not writing what the kids want to hear. Have you heard of that band Nirvana? That’s what’s in.   _

_ Now that Killian, he had star power. _

_ Nobody wants what you're selling. _

All the things that Moe French and his record producer buddies had told him as they slammed door after door in his face echoed in his mind. He’d thought he’d left all that behind but there it was, just beneath the surface. All it took was one scratch and the poison of his past came oozing out again.   

He thought Belle had been the balm for all that. Finally, he’d had a partner. Someone who believed in his songwriting abilities. Together, they could make a go of it.  

But it would never happen. He had no control over anything, he knew that now. He’d tried to control things early on with the band, with Milah. No matter how careful you were, the Moe French’s and Killian Jones’s of the world would always be there, just around the corner, ready to set fire to everything and force you to watch it burn.  

In the subsequent years he’d learned that it wasn’t possible to control people and love them at the same time. He’d discovered that with Bae. He’d realized that even music could not be governed by will alone. But, sometimes, love wasn’t enough either.  

After leaving the Hollywood Bowl, he’d driven around L.A. for a while, sitting in traffic until he realized what a stupid waste of gas that was and returned home. But now he was in the apartment, alone with his thoughts. He didn’t know what he was doing. A few cardboard boxes that were in the process of being packed had been partially unpacked over the course of the last 24 hours. 

You spend your whole life striving and trying. Until one day you wake up old, broke and scared of starting over. 

Well not anymore. 

He picked up items at random. A bowl, a fidget spinner of Bae’s, a pair of scissors. They all went in the box. He gained momentum, carrying the box around the apartment, packing everything within reach.  

He filled one box to the brim, folded in the flaps, and grabbed another. 

_ Are you alright? _

Amidst the voices of the record executives, a new voice emerged. 

_ Is there something been bothering you? _

Belle’s voice. Christ, did he hear  _ all _ her thoughts now? 

_ Are you alright? _ _   
_ _ I wish you'd give me a little clue _

No, it was the opening on a song lyric. Simple. Mournful. Repetitive. She must be writing. 

He tried to block her out, to escape her imploring. How far could this mind reading thing of theirs stretch? He’d soon find out when he put an entire continent and ocean between them.  

_ Are you alright? _ _   
_ _ Is there something you wanna say? _

He thought of boxes and one-way plane tickets and a Lyft to the airport. He could book it through the app on Bae’s phone.    _   
_ _   
_ _ Are you alright? _ __   


Milah had used him. Killian had used him. Moe had used him. Now, Belle. Well she couldn’t have his help or his lyrics anymore. 

_ Just tell me that you're okay _

His intention to cut himself off from her did nothing to cease Belle’s relentless funeral dirge from playing in his head. He dropped the box he was holding and grabbed his hair at the roots and tugged. 

“Leave, leave, leave,” he ground out. 

_ Are you alright? _

_ 'Cause you took off without a word _

He growled in frustration, his fingers gripping the edge of the old wooden stool he was doubled over. Her cloying, sentimental words continued their assault. 

_ Are you alright?  
_ _ You flew away like a little bird _

He picked up the seat and cracked its legs against the wall. The wood splintered into pieces. 

As soon as he’d done it, he’d known it was the wrong thing. Force wasn’t what was going to make this, make her, go away. But he knew what would. 

“Leave, leave, leave” he muttered, grasping his guitar by the neck. He spun it in his palm and collapsed onto the bed, hoisting the instrument across his lap. 

The hatred flooded through him but his words were controlled. 

_ I can't wait forever is all that you said _ _   
_ _ Before you stood up _

She’d asked him to get past it, to accept who she was, who her father was. But she didn’t realized how it was all tangled together. He lived where he lived because of Moe French. Bae hadn’t gotten the childhood he deserved because of her father. 

_ And you won't disappoint me _ _   
_ _ I can do that myself _ _   
_ _ But I'm glad that you've come _ _   
_ __ Now if you don't mind

The song was blunt. It was cold. It was full of resentment. Just like himself. 

_ Leave, leave, _ _   
_ _ And free yourself at the same time _ _   
_ _ Leave, leave, _ _   
_ __ I don't understand, you've already gone

He’d pushed down the bitterness for so long in order to focus on Bae. Now, he let causticness lead him. 

_ And I hope you feel better _ _   
_ _ Now that it's out _ _   
_ _ What took you so long _ _   
_ _ And the truth has a habit _ _   
_ _ Of falling out of your mouth _   
_ But now that it's come _ _   
_ __ If you don't mind

He was banging on the guitar punishingly. The lyrics came from his heart, from his gut. His own pleading cry drowning out Belle’s tune and making his throat raw. 

_ Leave, leave, _ _   
_ _ And please yourself at the same time _ _   
_ _ Leave, leave, _ _   
_ _ Let go of my hand _ _   
_ _ You said what you have to now _ _   
_ _ Leave, leave, _ _   
_ _ Let go of my hand _ _   
_ _ You said what you came to now _ _   
_ _ Leave, leave, _ _   
_ _ Leave, leave, _ _   
_ _ Let go of my hand _ _   
_ _ You said what you have to now _ _   
_ __ Leave, leave

His hand fell limp, the pick falling from between his fingers to the floor. He leaned over the guitar, mentally and physically exhausted. 

The song had been short, but powerful and effective. Her voice had finally faded. He couldn’t hear her anymore. He couldn’t feel her anymore. She was gone. 

It was over. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *song credit “Are You Alright” by Lucinda Williams
> 
> *song credit “Leave” by Glen Hansard


	12. Chapter 12

After suffering through soundcheck she’d been driven back to her father’s mansion, she couldn’t think of it as her home anymore, went to her bedroom, and closed the door. She rooted through the nightstands for some notebook paper, similar to the kind Rumford used. She found an old diary instead. She ripped out a pink tinted page, sat down at her vanity, and started composing. She didn’t think of songwriting as three verses and a hook anymore, but as communicating to someone. She hadn’t tried to be clever, just open and honest, hoping she could still tap into their clairvoyance.

She could have written something out of the outrage she felt about being judged by her father’s past decisions. Who do you think you are? Or the ache of watching Rumford’s retreating back and not being able to follow. Why did you walk away? Or of the distressing feeling of having her growing wings clipped and all her dreams of freedom suddenly yanked out from under her. Is this the end of everything? Instead, she wrote down the question that she really, in that moment, wanted the answer to above all the others.

Are you alright?

The plaintive words flowed from there.

To her surprise, he heard her. Not only was their line of communication still open, he replied. Oh boy, did he respond. With a song that clobbered her in it’s agonizing distress.

Leave, he’d implored, and cut their telepathic connection, like it was nothing more than a string between two soup cans.

He’d shut her out. Completely.

He must be so hurt, she thought.

Her concern surprised her. With him out of her head and senses, she was now able to parse out her feelings from his. The most intense of them, the anger and distress and confusion that had been swirling inside her since he’d left the Hollywood Bowl, vanished along with the telepathy. What Belle was left with was a sensation of persistence... and overwhelming curiosity.

She got up from the vanity and padded out of her bedroom and down the stairs, past the maids and the house chef and her father’s various assistants who milled around the house at all hours. The house employees smiled warmly at her, but she didn’t stop to chat like she normally would. Her father’s assistants looked right past her.

While the upstairs resembled a typical mansion, there was an entire wing and ground floor dedicated to her father’s empire. The amenities included a recording studio, several meetings rooms, and a couple offices. Belle rarely crossed the invisible barrier into her father’s office, but she did now. He would likely remain at the Hollywood Bowl through the evening, overseeing the finishing touches of her show.

She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she had a sense it would be in this room lined with framed gold and platinum albums. Her father and his people kept meticulous records and rarely discarded anything. It was all evidence of his legacy. There’d been talk of making a documentary or a publishing a book celebrating Moe French’s achievements. Much of the paraphernalia was digitized, but even then they were filed away in cabinets that lined one wall. The most important items and contracts were kept in fireproof safe in the wall that she didn’t have the combination for.

Several Grammy’s sat on a shelf behind his massive desk. She sat down in his plush leather seat. She’d sat in the small, less ostentatious chair reserved for employees and recording artists on the other side of the desk, but never this one. Belle swiveled back and forth, her toes barely touching the marble floor. How many dreams had he made come true from this seat? How many had he struck down?

She turned on the sleek Mac desktop and, not knowing her father’s password, logged in as herself. The whole house was networked but the drives with her father’s business files were password protected and she doubted any of his employees would give it to her. A Google search of Rum’s name revealed he barely had an online presence. Just some mentions on a few obscure music websites listing him as part of a wave of musicians coming out of the U.K.’s Madchester scene in the late 80’s and early 90’s. If he was listed as part of a band, she had no idea what the name would be.

The computer no longer an option, and rolled her father’s chair over to the line of cabinets. Pulling out one drawer stuffed with manilla folders, she noticed they were organized alphabetically by artist or band name. When the “G” drawer turned up nothing, she dove in at random. She passed over anything that looked new or was a solo act. She concentrated on her task with such intensity, she didn’t know how long she was at it. It must have been hours because, many drawers later, she almost didn’t believe it when it was in her hand.

A contract. Even without the name printed underneath she recognized Rum’s handwriting from all the pages of lyrics on his apartment walls. Underneath his were several other names she didn’t recognize that she assumed were his bandmates. Then, at the very bottom, her father’s large scrawl.  
She knew it was a contract because she’d signed one herself when she was very young. At the time it made her feel very important and that her father had loved her. Now, she wondered what in the world it said. What it similar to this? Between the legalese she could make out the band signing over their name, songs, lyrics, and the majority of the proceeds from any of the above to her father.

Also in the folder was a disc. They must have digitized the tape years ago when they were making the transition to CDs. She rolled back over to the desk and popped out the CD-ROM drive and slipped the disc in. She expected to hear Rum’s voice emanate from the speakers, but it was someone else entirely. The music was experimental and dated in a way that sounded foreign to her ears but she could still make out the poetic lyrics that were distinctly Rumford Gold’s. The last thing the folder held were a few promotional photos. There he was, standing among a group of people. Thirty years younger and his hair a little shorter but it was unmistakably him.

Staring at the evidence in front of her, she was unsure of what to do with all this information. It didn’t prove anything beyond her father having once managed Rumford’s band. Judging by the contents of the contract and the thinness of the file, it hadn’t ended well.

***

Bae hopped up the last couple steps to their apartment door. He’d stayed away as long as he could to give his dad and Belle plenty of time together. Now that they were definitely staying in L.A. he didn’t have to worry about saying goodbye to his friends. He threw his key in the lock and turned but the door only gave an inch and wouldn’t budge further. He heard his dad’s muffled voice from the other side of the door. Maybe he hadn’t given them enough time.

When his dad renched the door open enough for him to fit through Bae saw it wasn’t his dad that had been blocking his way, it was boxes. They’d multiplied overnight and now covered most of the floor.

“What’s all this?” he asked, but his heart was already sinking. He knew what it was. It hadn’t worked. They were leaving.

“I’m sorry, Bae,” his father told him quietly. “It could never work.”

For a minute he thought he was going to scream at his dad for screwing everything up. But he looked so tired, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Bae’s shoulders slumped in defeat and he silently picked up an empty carton and took it to his side of the room.

***

Belle spent the days leading up to the Hollywood Bowl performance working on a plan. It wasn’t a complete plan, per se. It wasn’t even guaranteed to work. But she had to try. Sitting in her father’s chair the day she found the folder containing the remnants of Rum’s band taught her that Moe French’s power was given to him because he acted like he deserved it.

The evening of the performance, she’d spent the time in hair and makeup psyching herself up. When they’d helped her into her first costume and released her, she grabbed the first person she saw with a headmic.

“Where’s my father?” she attempted a demanding tone.

“Up in the control booth,” the guy told her.

On the other side of the stadium. An entire audience between them. Despite the hitch, Belle pressed on.

She threw back her shoulders and tried on a haughty demeanor. “Tell him a need to speak to him.” How do people act like this all the time? Please,” she couldn’t help tacking on.

The man shrugged, pressed a button on his headset and repeated Belle’s message.

Belle fought to keep her posture erect while she waited. Should she cross her arms and tap or foot, or was that over the top? She was not going to cower in front of these people any longer. They may work for her father and spent the last week looking through her, but they wouldn’t have a job tonight if it weren’t for her. Before, she would have chastised herself for having such a petty, entitled thought. But she wasn’t being difficult, she reminded herself, she was taking credit for her own part in this machine. She was taking control.

The finally came back with an answer, “He says he’ll talk to you after.”

Belle deflated a little. She’d gotten herself fired up and if she waited any longer to confront her father she might lose her neve. But just then the lights on the stage dimmed and the crowd roared. It was time to go on.

She cleared her throat and stood a little taller. “Tell him if I don’t see him in the wings by intermission I will walk right off this stage and I’ll make sure the press hears about it this time.”

Then she marched past him and into the spotlight at center stage.

***

When Bae had pictured eating pizza for dinner that night - he asked for pizza every night but only averaged success maybe once a week - it wasn’t sitting on taped up cardboard boxes, alone with his dad, because the place was prepped to move and one of the kitchen stools had mysteriously disappeared.

“Dad,” he ventured between bites, “what happened?”

He could see the dismissive look on his dad’s face already.

“Really,” he pressed softly. “Tell me.”

It was the “tell me” that got him. So he told him everything. About his rough childhood in Glasgow and how music helped him through. To Milah, his mom, and Killian and coming to America. To Moe French and finally to Belle. In calm, unemotional tones, he told him all of it.

After the long soliloquy, Bae chewed over all the new information for a moment.

“And you’re just giving up? Dad, that’s not very rock ‘n’ roll.”

Gold couldn’t help but laugh at his son’s admonishment. He ruffled Bae’s hair. “What do you know about rock ‘n’ roll?

“Everything,” he replied simply. “I learned it from you.”

Gold smiled gently, letting his son speak.

“All the guys you listen to keep trying,” he reasoned. “The Rolling Stones are still touring and they’re, like, ancient.”

Gold chuckled again.

“Can’t we be brave, dad? Just one more time? Belle was brave when she ran off with us. She didn’t even know us and she took a chance on us. Can we take a chance on her? Just one more big chance.”

***

Halfway through the set and Moe still hadn’t shown up.

Belle performed on autopilot, swiveling her hips and gyrating with the dancers. It made her remember dancing with Rumford in his apartment. Her moves had been in direct contrast to the ones she performed now. She hadn’t been trying to be sexy or to seduce him. She thought of their slow sway with their foreheads touching. They didn’t have to grind against each other to want to fall into bed together.

The second half of the show she spent glancing into the wings but she didn’t see Moe’s silhouette among the people gathered there. She hadn’t thought about what she was going to do if he didn’t show. Maybe she should have a Plan B.

Finally, the concert came to a close and she rushed off stage to do a quick change into her encore outfit. Two women stood next to a curtain holding an embellished tulle gown she was expected to jump into.

A large shadow fell over her. “You wanted to see me?” he father stood to the side, letting her know that she should get on with the quick change and talk to him through the curtain.

This wasn’t at all how she planned this going and by the smug look he was giving her, he was purposefully trying to throw her off.

“Yes,” she steeled herself and marched behind the curtain. Actually, this might be easier without having to look at him. “You hurt Rumford Gold, didn’t you?” she talked loudly so he could hear her as one woman yanked the costume she was wearing off and the other began fixing her hair.

She could hear the mirth in her father’s voice, “Is that what you’re upset about? Honey, that was ten years ago.”

“For you,” she told him through the curtain. Something occurred to her. “You don’t care, do you? You hurt people and you don’t care.” Rumford, Ariel, Gold, his own daughter. They were interchangeable to him.

“It’s business,” he said.

She stepped out from behind the curtain. This hadn’t been part of her rehearsed speech, but it was true all the same. “I don’t want to be part of your business,” she announced. “Not anymore. This is the last concert I’ll ever do for you.”

He looked down at her patronizingly. “You have an international tour that starts next month,” he informed her.

Belle refused to be thrown off. “Fine, I’ll go through the motions. But I will find a way to get out of it.”

For the first time, Moe looked uneasy. He looked down at her clothes.

She was back in her ripped jeans. This time she paired it with boots and a sweater that slipped off one shoulder. She couldn’t wait to wipe the overdone makeup off her face.

“Get in your costume,” he ground out.

Three feet away 15,000 people were chanting her name. Not her father’s. Hers.

She shook her head. “I don’t need one anymore.”

She turned on her heel and strode out onto the stage to thunderous applause. She stepped up to the microphone stand.

“I don’t know if this is going to work,” she told the crowd hesitantly. The adrenaline rushing through her from her showdown with her father made her voice jittery. “It’s a song I wrote. It’s meant for two people.”

The crowd seemed to be with her, but she heard shuffles of confusion behind her as the band flipped through their music, thinking they’d missed a song. They were supposed to play her latest Moe-approved radio single.

Belle turned back to the band. “I don’t need you for this,” she dismissed them from the stage, pleasantly surprised when they listened to her. “But,” she caught the guitarist as he was stepping off, “may I borrow that?” she pointed at his acoustic guitar. He handed it over to her. It was sparkling new, not scuffed and full of history like Rum’s.

Belle slung the strap around her, took the pick from one of the mic stands, and returned to center stage. She was going to open her mind and see what came. If he came. She had a beginning, a middle, but no end. She was going to fall and hope he was there to catch her. If he wasn’t, she’d be okay. She’d pick herself up.

She’d used YouTube and her mother’s guitar to practice. Her chords were novice, but she was going to make up for it by using her voice. Her real voice.

“I hope this reaches the right person,” she told the crowd and began.

I know he hurt you  
Made you scared of love, too scared to love  
He didn't deserve you  
'Cause you're precious heart is a precious heart  
He didn't know what he had and I thank God, oh, oh, oh  
And it's gonna take just a little time  
But you're gonna see that I was born to love you

It was obvious the crowd had been expecting a high energy finale but by the end of the first verse of her ballad, they’d settled down and were swaying mostly in unison. She entered the chorus with more confidence.

I won't let you fall  
I'll never make you cry  
I'll hold you tighter  
When they're tryna get to you baby I'll be the fighter

She only had one more verse written, then she was out of words. She tried to reach out to see if she could sense that she was getting through to him, but all she felt was her own nervousness.

Look in the mirror  
Yeah you're beautiful, so beautiful  
I'm here to remind you  
You're my only one so let me be the one  
To heal all the pain that he put you through  
It's a love like you never knew  
Just let me show you

That was it, she was out of time. She’d repeat the chorus twice and end it. The crowd wouldn’t notice.

I won't let you fall  
I'll never make you cry  
I'll hold you tighter  
When they're tryna get to you baby I'll be the fighter

She took a deep breath to repeat the chorus one last time, determined to end on a strong note. But jerked back when a strong, male voice, his voice, popped into her head.

I wanna believe that you got me baby  
I swear I do from now until the next life  
I wanna love, wanna give you all my heart

Her fingers slipped off the strings, but she composed herself and picked up where she fell off. She closed her eyes, smiled, and leaned into the mic. With the two of them harmonizing in her mind, she could pretend he was up there on stage with her. She sang his lyrics.

I wanna believe that you got me baby  
I swear I do from now until the next life  
I wanna love, wanna give you all my heart

Together, they launched into the chorus.

I won't let you fall  
I'll never make you cry  
I'll hold you tighter  
When they're tryna get to you baby I'll be the fighter

Belle kept her eyes closed as applause erupted from the stadium, unwilling to let go of the imaginary feeling of him being next to her. If she concentrated, she could even feel his hand slipping into hers and squeezing.

She opened her eyes. No amount of telepathy could cause the vision in front of her.

Rum stood next to her, holding her hand and smiling at her. They didn’t need psychic abilities to translate the love and forgiveness between them. He tugged her gently to him, lowering his forehead to touch hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “The Fighter” Songwriters: Keith Urban / Michael James Ryan Busbee (I used this cover by Haley Klinkhammer as the inspiration for Belle’s performance (though Belle wouldn’t know all those chords yet): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E18NbxOyQQs)


	13. Epilogue

He missed the smell of cigarette smoke in bars. He’d mostly quit when Bae was young, but in the intervening years, he’d been known to sneak one up on the roof and bury the butt in the planter afterward. He enjoyed the nicotine contact high of being around smokers because it made him feel like it was still 1985 and his career was still in front of him, if only for the length of a song. But gone was the haze over the audience. Now, he saw each and every face crystal clear. He appreciated the vape smoke for aesthetics, but it wasn’t the same. Lately, he was more likely to get a whiff of pot from the tables below, which equally transported him back to his twenties. But honestly, he didn’t need the crutch anymore.  

He’d been to enough open mic nights to know that many people squinted in the spotlight when they climbed on stage. Some, unfamiliar with the creaks and groans of an old wooden platform still sticky with decades of spilled beer, even threw up an arm to shield their eyes from the glare but he didn’t. Ancient stage or a slab of concrete in a dark corner, it felt comfortable to him, like home. Tonight, he could feel the heat from the overhead light on his face. He didn’t even need to look to see whether he sat in the center of the rickety stage raised one foot off the ground. He could just feel it. 

But Belle winced as the stool she pulled forward scraped against the grain and wobbled a little climbing up. She’d performed in front of more people than he could comprehend, yet in this intimate club, he watched her eyes narrow when the light hit her face. She swiveled self-consciously so she faced him more than the expectant faces two feet away. He knew she was going to be uncomfortable tonight, that this was going to be a stretch for her, but he knew she’d be brilliant. She wiped her palms on her old torn jeans. He knew she chose to wear them here as a sort of armor.     

He couldn’t guarantee her fame, he couldn’t give her money, he couldn’t promise her that their life together was always going to be easy, but he could give her nights like this. A safe space to build confidence in her abilities and a venue to workshop her feelings through song.  

Sometimes they showed up at an open mic night and wrote together, telepathically, on the spot for fun. It was a rush, being in front of a crowd and not knowing if the next verse was going to appear, but it always did. They throwing out the beginning of an idea, because the other person was always there to finish it.  

He’d brought her to this particular venue tonight because it was known for its discerning crowd. If you weren’t good, they’d let you know it with their indifference. It was also close to their old apartment. 

Following her Hollywood Bowl performance, Belle had moved in with him and Bae. But it wasn’t long until they’d moved out of the neighborhood, leaving their cramped, bohemian rooftop living behind. They’d bought a modest house just outside the city but still close enough to music venues and nightlife. 

Bae was going to a better school now. He fought the transfer at first, but he could still see his friends on the weekends. Unlike his old school, his new school hadn’t defunded the music program. Since he didn’t want to be in the school chorus, he’d landed in band. They’d given him his choice of instruments, they were even progressive enough to include electric guitar. But he refused to play the same instrument as his father. After trying out all they had to offer Bae discovered his new love - the trumpet. On any given night an obnoxious blaring reverberated through the house. Since Bae spent his entire life keeping it down for the neighbors, Gold couldn’t bring himself to tell him to knock it off, and being anything but wholly supportive was outside Belle’s capabilities. Gold found himself playing a lot of Miles Davis and Wynton Marsalis records around the house, trying to convey to Bae that he needn’t be blowing full-force, as loud as he possibly could, the entire time.   

“Most of you know me,” Gold told the small but interested crowd. When he and Bae had lived here, this was the dive bar he played at regularly. It paid nothing, but let him practice. The owner even let a young Bae sit at the bar and drink ginger ale while he performed. 

“This is my friend,” he cocked his head at Belle, “ah,” he picked a name at random, “Lacey.” 

Many people in the room laughed, knowing exactly who Belle was. But he and Belle learned in the last few months that it wasn’t always prudent to give her real name everywhere they went. The headline of America’s pop princess shaking up with a single father twenty years her senior had captivated the celebrity gossip magazines. Bae thought it was cool when a mob of fans and paparazzi descend upon them, but Belle and Gold were less thrilled with the ensuing hoopla. Since “Belle French” set off alarm bells everywhere they went, they’d come up with a host of pseudonyms. Gold secretly hoped to give her his own last name soon, if she’d have it, so perhaps she could stop giving false ones. 

Belle, now settled in her seat next to him, smiled at his attempted ruse. 

“We’re going to start with a song we wrote together,” he continued. “You might know it.” He leaned back to play the opening notes then sang. 

_ I know he hurt you _ _   
_ _ Made you scared of love, too scared to love _

It was Belle’s song from the Hollywood Bowl that he’d helped her finish. Fans had recorded it on their phones and put it up on YouTube and it got a positive response. He and Belle had tweaked it slightly since. He’d added a more complicated guitar lick at the beginning and Belle suggested they pick up tempo to add more mass appeal. He also took on lead vocals. They’d shopped that version around town and it was one of the first songs they’d sold as a writing team. People more famous than him sang it on the radio now. While he was proud of the money they earned every time he heard another man sing it on the radio or in a commercial, Gold preferred this stripped down version that made it more of a love song. Belle appreciated the more pop version because she said it sounded more celebratory, that they’d struggle but they’d made through to the other side and were together now. 

_ He didn't deserve you _ _   
_ _ 'Cause you're precious heart is a precious heart _

Together over the past several months, he and Belle had built a credible reputation as in-demand songwriters-for-hire, penning a few tracks for various pop stars and even a big crossover hit.  _   
_ _   
_ _ He didn't know what he had and I thank God, oh, oh, oh _ __   


Since Belle was still was technically under contract on Moe French’s label, until they could figure out how to disentangle her from that, she couldn’t record any of the music they wrote or release it. 

_ And it's gonna take just a little time _ _   
_ __ But you're gonna see that I was born to love you   


But Belle wasn’t living off her father’s money any longer, or any money she made as “Belle”. Gold had tried to dissuade her, trying to convince her how hard it was to make a living playing music on your own. He wasn’t going to be able to provide for her at the level her father had been, but she wouldn’t be deterred. She had that much faith in their songwriting ability to sell to other major artists. After Moe took a large chunk off the top, the small percentage she did get in sales, radio, and licensing royalties went towards legal fees to unsnarl her professional relationship with her father. The rest she put into a college fund for Bae.

Belle closed her eyes, comfortable in the room now that she could lose herself in the song, and sang the chorus

_ What if I fall _

Also new was a call and response they’d built into the chorus. Gold leaned into the mic and answered her. 

_ I won't let you fall _

Her voice was clear, angelic yet full of meaning. If you’d listen to a “Belle” record and her singing now, you’d never even guess they were the same person. She was beginning to find her own voice, outside of the one that Moe and the record label conceived for her. 

_ What if I cry _

Since she was still obligated to fulfill her contract, Belle was technically on her international tour right now, but she’d flown in from Houston for a couple days in between shows. She’d be leaving for Europe in a few months. She flexed her newfound muscles when she could, making her own choices where she was legally allowed. But the plan was to ride out this international tour, get her off Moe’s label, and move on with their lives. She was currently only talking to her father through intermediaries.   
  
_ I'll never make you cry _   


After her initial anger wore off, Gold could tell that it was hurting Belle to completely lose contact with the only parent she had left. Seeing her struggling forced Gold to finally let go of his old resentments against Moe. But Belle insisted that she needed to destroy her relationship with her father if she had any hope of rebuilding it. 

_ And if I get scared _

Also making the rounds on YouTube was a video his own son had taken. 

_ I'll hold you tighter _ _   
_ _ When they're tryna get to you baby I'll be the fighter _ __   


After Bae convinced him to not give up on Belle, they rushed off to the Hollywood Bowl. Surpassing even their Staples Center escape, they’d climbed the canyons in order to come down the other side and sneak into the venue. The whole time they could hear the concert in progress. By the time they slipped through the barriers, it was late and Gold feared they’d miss the show completely. 

Because it was so late in the show, security was unnervingly lax and it was easy to slide their way through the crowd and to the stage wings unnoticed. He’d spent the past several days constructing a barrier in his mind to block out Belle’s voice, but it only took moments to disintegrate when he saw her at the edge of the stage, standing there in her ripped jeans. She looked vulnerable and beautiful and strong all at once. He didn’t need to read her mind, she was talking to the crowd, telling them about the song we was about to sing. A song he knew she’d written for him. She was putting herself out there, at her own show in front of thousands of people, in the hope that he’d reach out to her. She was doing so much and asking so little of him. He wouldn’t let her down. He wouldn’t abandon her, on stage or ever.  

He bolted out of the wings and onto the stage, but was blocked by the unwelcome shadow of Moe French.  

“You,” Moe growled, his cool demeanor from their previous run-in abandoned. “How many times am I going to have to destroy you?” 

Gold’s ire immediately rose. But he couldn’t get caught up in the poisonous cycle, not again. Belle needed him. He could feel her impending panic as she reached the end of her song, with no answering lyrics from him.  

“Once more, apparently,” and shoved past Moe and out onto the stage. 

Gold hadn’t know it was happening. He was out on stage with Belle. But, fortuitously, Bae captured the entire exchange, and the tantrum immediately afterward, on camera. He said later that he pulled out his phone and started filming for evidence in case Moe physically assaulted him. But that didn’t explain why he immediately uploaded it to YouTube and titled it “Moe French Has Meltdown at Belle Concert.” The footage of Moe standing at the edge of the stage, spitting bile about his only daughter and verbally abusing the staff that were unfortunate enough to be standing in the vicinity, was difficult to watch. But not as difficult as sitting beside Belle, holding her hand, as she viewed it for the first time. 

Back at the dive bar, the closing notes of their Hollywood Bowl song faded out. A silent pause, and then thunderous applause erupted from the audience.  

He’d seen her showered with praise after two-plus hour concerts. But this was the happiest, the most proud, he’d ever seen Belle. 

Riding that high, he unlooped the guitar strap from around his neck and thrust the instrument towards her. He accompanied her on all their songs. But he was teaching her to play, little by little, and this next song was for her and her alone. 

“Ready?” he murmured. 

She hesitated, swallowing audibly, before reaching out and wrapping her hand around the neck.

They wrote all their songs together, save this one. He hadn’t helped her with the lyrics, even when she asked. He gave her an assist with the instrumental, but he’d strictly limited his role. He knew the process of writing a song alone, of struggling with it over a period of time, of really having to dig, could be redemptive. You unearthed feelings long forgotten, pain you didn’t know you still held on to, pleasure you believed you’d never experience again. Either way you exorcized it through writing something honest, something true.    

It was because the lyrics were so delicate, so plain, so raw, and not hidden behind heavy symbolism or clever turns of phrase that made her lyrics about losing her mother and, in a different way, her father, so powerful. 

__ I'm learning how to live   
Without you in my life   
I'm learning how to live   
Without you in my life  
  
I'll take the best of what   
You had to give   
I'll make the most of what   
You left me with   
I'm learning how to live

Gold sat back and watched her play and sing. For years she’d mesmerized crowds with her youth, her body, her energy. He looked down at the crowd and marked how spellbound they were by her by her voice, her words, her feelings.  

In its own way, what they were building together would eclipse his meteoric rise and fall or her pop stardom, and even Moe French’s empire. Because this career was built on love.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: The Fighter Songwriters: Keith Urban / Michael James Ryan Busbee  
> Song: Learning How to Live Songwriter: Lucinda Williams


End file.
